A Detective’s Experience

Secret Murder

“I once arrested a man,” said Mr. F., “accused of killing his wife. Although convicted, I have always been doubtful if his sentence were just. He came here a stranger; silent and repellant in his manner, making no acquaintance and shunning society. He was a foreigner, too, speaking our language but imperfectly, and relying solely for sympathy and confidence on the beautiful woman whose warm, sunny loveliness seemed chilled by the cold, rigid manners of her husband. She was very young, too, and those who knew them best, from seeing them most, declared that her glad utterances were often frozen—her childish laughter stilled—by a gloomy look or stern command. He seemed a man at war with mirth, and brooked no joy in his alienated sympathies. She feared him, too; for those who saw how the young creature gladdened when the sunlight flung its beauty around her; when the flowers bloomed in her way, or nature answered back her smiles; saw, too, her furtive glances to see if he noted the transient joy she felt, and saw her sadden at the frown she met.

One night the people in the house at which they staid heard her scream in terror, but the man’s gloomy nature had made them fear to enter his room, unless invited, and several minutes elapsed before they summoned courage to ascertain the cause of her alarm. When, at last, a servant opened the door, the young wife lay dead upon the floor, stabbed to the heart. The man was gone. Mr. I. and myself were… Read More