That night, when I had rounded up the day’s work with a good dinner, I retired to my study, and, drawing an armchair up to the fire, opened the volume.  It was a strange document.  At first I was unable to perceive the relevancy of the matter to the title, for it seemed to be a journal of Challoner’s private life; but later I began to see the connection, to realize, as Challoner had said, that the collection was nothing more than a visible commentary on and illustration of his daily activities.

The volume opened with an account of the murder of his wife and the circumstances leading up to it, written with a dry circumstantiality that was to me infinitely pathetic.  It was the forced impassiveness of a strong man whose heart is breaking.  There were no comments, no exclamations; merely a formal recital of facts, exhaustive, literal and precise.  I need not quote it, as it only repeated the story he had told me, but I will commence my extract at the point where he broke off.  The style, as will be seen, is that of a continuous narrative, apparently compiled from a diary; and, as it proceeds, marking the lapse of time, the original dryness of manner gives place to one more animated, more in keeping with the temperament of the writer.

“When I had buried my dear wife, I waited with some impatience to see what the police would do.  I had no great expectations.  The English police system is more adjusted to offences against property than to those against the person.  Nothing had been stolen, so nothing could be traced; and the clues were certainly very slight.  It soon became evident to me that the authorities had given the case up.  They gave me no hope that the murderer would ever be identified; and, in fact, it was pretty obvious that they had written the case off as hopeless and ceased to interest themselves in it.

“Of course I could not accept this view.  My wife had been murdered.  The murder was without extenuation.  It had been committed lightly to cover a paltry theft.  Now, for murder, no restitution is possible.  But there is an appropriate forfeit to be paid; and if the authorities failed to exact it, then the duty of its exaction devolved upon me.  Moreover, a person who thus lightly commits murder as an incident in his calling is unfit to live in a community of human beings.  It was clearly my duty as a good citizen to see that this dangerous person was eliminated.

“This was well enough in theory, but its realization in practice presented considerable difficulties.  The police had (presumably) searched for this person and failed to find him.  How was I, untrained in methods of detection, to succeed where the experts had been baffled?  I considered my resources.  They consisted of a silver teapot and a salver which had been handled by the murderer and which, together, yielded a complete set of finger-prints, and the wisp of hair that I had taken from the hand of my murdered wife.  It is true that the police also had finger-marked