As Isam withdrew, a middle-aged man took the stand, and in answer to Mr. Dunbar’s questions deposed:  “That he was ‘bridge tender’ on the railroad, and lived in a cottage not far from the water tank.  On the night of the twenty-sixth of October, he was sitting up with a sick wife, and remembered that being feverish, she asked for some fresh water.  He went out to draw some from the well, and saw a man standing not far from the bridge.  The moon was behind a row of trees, but he noticed the man was bareheaded, and when he called to know what he wanted, he walked back toward the tank.  Five minutes later the freight train blew, and after it had crossed the bridge, he went back to his cottage.  The man was standing close to the safety signal, a white light fastened to an iron stanchion at south end of the bridge, and seemed to be reading something.  Next day, when he (witness) went as usual to examine the piers and under portions of the bridge, he had found the pipe, now in Mr. Dunbar’s possession.  Tramps so often rested on the bridge, and on the shelving bank of the river beneath it, that he attached no importance to the circumstance; but felt confident the pipe was left by the man whom he had seen, as it was not there the previous afternoon; and he put it in a pigeon-hole of his desk, thinking the owner might return to claim it.  On the same day, he had left X—­to carry his wife to her mother, who lived in Pennsylvania, and was absent for several weeks.  Had never associated the pipe with the murder, but after talking with Mr. Dunbar, who had found the half of an envelope near the south end of the bridge, he had surrendered it to him.  Did not see the man’s face distinctly.  He looked tall and thin.”

Here Mr. Dunbar held up a fragment of a long white em elope such as usually contain legal documents, on which in large letters was written “Last will”—­and underscored with red ink.  Then he lifted a pipe, for the inspection of the witness, who identified it as the one he had found.

As he turned it slowly, the Court and the multitude saw only a meerschaum with a large bowl representing a death’s head, to which was attached a short mouth-piece of twisted amber.

The golden gates of hope clashed suddenly, and over them flashed a drawn sword, as Beryl looked at the familiar pipe, which her baby fingers had so often strained to grasp.  How well she knew the ghastly ivory features, the sunken eyeless sockets—­of that veritable death’s head?  How vividly came back the day, when asleep in her father’s arms, a spark from that grinning skull had fallen on her cheek, and she awoke to find that fond father bending in remorseful tenderness over her?  Years ago, she had reverently packed the pipe away, with other articles belonging to the dead, and ignorant that her mother had given it to Bertie, she deemed it safe in that sacred repository.  Now, like the face of Medusa it glared at her, and that which her father’s lips had sanctified, became the polluted medium of a retributive curse upon his devoted child.  So the Diabolus ex machina, the evil genius of each human life decrees that the most cruel cureless pangs are inflicted by the instruments we love best.