“It’s a sad work, this bringing people to the gallows, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Janci, it is sometimes.  But it’s a good thing to be able to avenge crime and bring justice to the injured.  Good-bye, Janci.”

“Good-bye, sir, and God speed you.”

The shepherd stood looking after the small, slight figure of the man who walked on rapidly through the heather.  “He’s the right one for the work,” murmured Janci as he turned slowly back towards the village.

An hour later Muller stood in the little waiting-room of the railway station writing a telegram.  It was addressed to Count ——.

  “Do you know the shepherd Janci?  It would be a good thing to
  make him the official detective for the village.  He has high
  qualifications for the profession.  If I had his gifts combined
  with my own, not one could escape me.  I have found this one
  however.  The guards are already taking him to you.  My work
  here is done.  If I should be needed again I can be found at
  Police Headquarters, Vienna. 
          
                                        “Respectfully,
          
                                        “Joseph Muller.”

While the detective was writing his message—­it was one of the rare moments of humour that Muller allowed himself, and he wondered mildly what the stately Hungarian nobleman would think of it—­a heavy farm wagon jolted over the country roads towards the little county seat.  Sitting beside the driver and riding about the wagon were armed peasants.  The figure of a man, securely bound, his face distorted by rage and fear, lay in the wagon.  It was Gyuri Kovacz, who had murdered by the hands of another, and who was now on his way to meet the death that was his due.

And at one of the barred windows in the big yellow house stood a sallow-faced man, looking out at the rising moon with sad, tired eyes.  His lips were parted in a smile like that of a dreaming child, and he hummed a gentle lullaby.

In his compartment of the express from Budapest to Vienna, Joseph Muller sat thinking over the strange events that had called him to the obscure little Hungarian village.  He had met with many strange cases in his long career, but this particular case had some features which were unique.  Muller’s lips set hard and his hands tightened to fists as he murmured:  “I’ve met with criminals who used strange tools, but never before have I met with one who had the cunning and the incredible cruelty to utilise the mania of an unhinged human mind.  It is a thousand times worse than those criminals who, now and then throughout the ages, have trained brute beasts to murder for them.  Truly, this Hungarian peasant, Gyuri Kovacz, deserves a high place in the infamous roll-call of the great criminals of history.  A student of crime might almost be led to think that it is a pity his career has been cut short so soon.  He might have gone far.