Uncle Abner, Master of Mysteries by Melville Davisson Post

little conclusions, what did I do with Alkire after I had killed him? Did I cause him to vanish into the air with a smell of sulphur or did I cause the earth to yawn and Alkire to descend into its bowels?”
    â€œDix,” replied Abner, “your words move somewhat near the truth.”
    â€œUpon my soul,” cried Dix, “you compliment me. If I had that trick of magic, believe me, you would be already some distance down.”
    Abner remained a moment silent.
    â€œDix,” he said, “what does it mean when one finds a plot of earth resodded?”
    â€œIs that a riddle?” cried Dix. “Well, confound me, if I don’t answer it! You charge me with murder and then you fling in this neat conundrum. Now, what could be the answer to that riddle, Abner? If one had done a murder this sod would overlie a grave and Alkire would be in it in his bloody shirt. Do I give the answer?”
    â€œYou do not,” replied Abner.
    â€œNo!” cried Dix. “Your sodded plot no grave, and Alkire not within it waiting for the trump of Gabriel! Why, man, where are your little damned conclusions?”
    â€œDix,” said Abner, “you do not deceive me in the least; Alkire is not sleeping in a grave.”
    â€œThen in the air,” sneered Dix, “with the smell of sulphur?”
    â€œNor in the air,” said Abner.
    â€˜Then consumed with fire, like the priests of Baal?”
    â€œNor with fire,” said Abner.
    Dix had got back the quiet of his face; this banter had put him where he was when Abner entered. “This is all fools’ talk,” he said; “if I had killed Alkire, what could I have done with the body? And the horse! What could I have done with the horse? Remember, no man has ever seen Alkire’s horse any more than he has seen Alkire—and for the reason that Alkire rode him out of the hills that night. Now, look here, Abner, you have asked me a good many questions. I will ask you one. Among your little conclusions do you find that I did this thing alone or with the aid of others?”
    â€œDix,” replied Abner, “I will answer that upon my own belief you had no accomplice.”
    â€œThen,” said Dix, “how could I have carried off the horse? Alkire I might carry; but his horse weighed thirteen hundred pounds!”
    â€œDix,” said Abner, “no man helped you do this thing; but there were men who helped you to conceal it.”
    â€œAnd now,” cried Dix, “the man is going mad! Who could I trust with such work, I ask you? Have I a renter that would not tell it when he moved on to another’s land, or when he got a quart of cider in him? Where are the men who helped me?”
    â€œDix,” said Abner, “they have been dead these fifty years.” I heard Dix laugh then, and his evil face lighted as though a candle were behind it. And, in truth, I thought he had got Abner silenced.
    â€œIn the name of Heaven!” he cried. “With such proofs it is a wonder that you did not have me hanged.”
    â€œAnd hanged you should have been,” said Abner.
    â€œWell,” cried Dix, “go and tell the sheriff, and mind you lay before him those little, neat conclusions: How from a horse track and the place where a calf was butchered you have reasoned on Alkire’s murder, and to conceal the body and the horse you have reasoned on the aid of men who were rotting in their graves when I was born; and see how he will receive you!”
    Abner gave no attention to the man’s flippant speech. He got his great silver watch out of his pocket, pressed the stem and looked. Then he spoke in his deep, even voice.
    â€œDix,” he said, “it is nearly midnight; in an hour you must be on your journey, and I have something more to say. Listen! I knew this thing had been done the previous day because it had rained on the night that I met Alkire, and the earth of this ant heap had been