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Spiro Buzharovski

Introducing Blockchain with Java

Program, Implement, and Extend Blockchains with
Java
Spiro Buzharovski
Skopje, North Macedonia

ISBN 978-1-4842-7926-7 e-ISBN 978-1-4842-7927-4

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-1-4842-7927-4

© Spiro Buzharovski 2022

This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively
licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is
concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of
illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in
any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and
retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or
dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed.

The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks,

service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the
absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the
relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general
use.

The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the
advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate
at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the
editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the
material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have
been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional
claims in published maps and institutional affiliations.

This Apress imprint is published by the registered company APress

Media, LLC part of Springer Nature.
The registered company address is: 1 New York Plaza, New York, NY
10004, U.S.A.
Dedicated to my friends.
Preface
This book is for anyone with at least entry-level knowledge of Java or a
similar OOP language, entry-level knowledge of FXML or HTML or
similar markup languages, and entry-level knowledge of SQL. The book
will provide a solid understanding of blockchains and a great portfolio
project for those seeking employment as a developer in the blockchain
space or other IT sectors. It is great for developers who want to learn
by doing.
Chapter 1 is an excerpt from Introducing Blockchain with Lisp:
Implement and Extend Blockchains with the Racket Language by Boro
Sitnikovski. I am most grateful to Boro for allowing me to reuse his first
chapter here. It explains the theoretical part with excellent clarity, and I
feel very fortunate to have it included in my book. The rest of the book
will offer a step-by-step guide of how to create your own crypto coin by
implementing Blockchain technology in Java. This book contains a
completely unique implementation of a blockchain in the Java language.
Also, it will teach you how to create a basic user interface using JavaFX
and how to implement an SQLite database using a JDBC driver for our
blockchain. These topics will greatly help in visualizing the final
product and provide you with a solid set of transferable technical skills.
The recommended approach for the book is to follow along with
each chapter and write the code as it’s being explained instead of
reading passively. This way you will get the most from this book. All of
the source code is available for download from
https://github.com/5pir3x/e-coin. You should look at this
book as a guide to the why and how of the codebase found in the
repository.
Feel free to contact me at [email protected] for
any questions you might have, and I will do my best to answer.
Finally, thank you for purchasing this book! I hope this book will
dispel a lot of the mysteries surrounding the blockchain and that it will
spark some more interest in Java and blockchain technology.
Any source code or other supplementary material referenced by the
author in this book is available to readers on GitHub
(https://github.com/Apress). For more detailed information, please
visit http://www.apress.com/source-code.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1:​Introduction to Blockchain
1.​1 Motivation and Basic Definitions
1.​2 Encryption
1.​2.​1 Functions
1.​2.​2 Symmetric-Key Algorithm
1.​2.​3 Asymmetric-Key Algorithm
1.​3 Hashing
1.​4 Smart Contracts
1.​5 Bitcoin
1.​6 Example Workflows
1.​7 Summary
Chapter 2:​Model:​Blockchain Core
2.​1 Block.​java
2.​2 Transaction.​java
2.​3 Wallet.​java
2.​4 Summary
Chapter 3:​Database Setup
3.​1 SQLite Database Browser Setup
3.​2 Blockchain.​db
3.​3 Wallet.​db
3.​4 JDBC Driver for SQLite Setup
3.​5 Writing Your App init( ) Method
3.​6 Summary
Chapter 4:​Building the UI
4.​1 Scene Builder Quick Setup
 4.​2 Creating Your Views
4.​2.​1 MainWindow.​fxml
4.​2.​2 AddNewTransactio​nWindow.​fxml
4.​3 Creating Your View Controllers
4.​3.​1 MainWindowContro​ller
4.​3.​2 AddNewTransactio​nController
4.​4 Summary
Chapter 5:​Setting Up the Network and Multithreading
5.​1 UI Thread
5.​2 Mining Thread
5.​3 P2P Network Threads
5.​3.​1 PeerClient Thread
5.​3.​2 PeerServer Thread
5.​4 PeerRequestThrea​d
5.​5 Summary
Chapter 6:​Service Layer
6.​1 WalletData
6.​2 BlockchainData
6.​2.​1 Blockchain Consensus Protocol
6.​3 Summary
Chapter 7:​Extras
7.​1 Running the Application
7.​2 Topics for Future Improvements
7.​3 Conclusion
Index
About the Author
Spiro Buzharovski
is a full-stack software developer in the IT sector. He has a degree in
mechanical engineering and has worked as an engineer in the oil and
gas sector for more than six years. His interests include Java
frameworks, blockchain, and the latest high-tech trends. Inspiration for
this book came while working as a technical reviewer on an Apress
book by Boro Sitnikovski, Introducing Blockchain with Lisp: Implement
and Extend Blockchains with the Racket Language.
About the Technical Reviewer
Filip Tanurovski
is a senior software engineer with more than eight years of experience.
He has a degree in informatics and computer engineering. During the
first five years of his career, he primarily worked as a web developer
using the Java technology stack, although, lately, he has switched his
focus to other technologies like Node.js, Python, and Ruby, to name a
few. For two years, he was a course instructor for a five-week
introductory course to Java. He became passionate about writing clean
and maintainable code after reading the works of Robert Martin (Uncle
Bob). He is a highly motivated individual who is constantly looking for
ways to improve himself. In his spare time, he likes to spend time with
his wife, family, and friends, to travel, and train kickboxing.
© The Author(s), under exclusive license to APress Media, LLC, part of Springer
Nature 2022
S. Buzharovski, Introducing Blockchain with Java
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-1-4842-7927-4_1

1. Introduction to Blockchain
Spiro Buzharovski1
(1) Skopje, North Macedonia

The entirety of this chapter is comprised of an excerpt from

Introducing Blockchain with Lisp: Implement and Extend
Blockchains with the Racket Language by Boro Sitnikovski, and it
is reused here with the author’s permission.
“Chained” by Filip Rizov
In this chapter, we will see some definitions and examples for
blockchain. We will see what properties a blockchain has, what it allows
us to do, and what it is good for.

Definition 1-1 Blockchain is a system in which a record of

transactions is maintained across several computers that are linked
in a peer-to-peer network.1

We will give an example that will serve as motivation, as well as define

what encryption and hashing techniques are and how they will help us
with our system.
 Note that we will skip some of the technical bits in this chapter, as it
is only supposed to serve as introductory material. The technical bits
will be covered later when we start building the blockchain.

1.1 Motivation and Basic Definitions

Let’s assume that you and your friends exchange money often, for
example, paying for dinner or drinks. It can be inconvenient to
exchange cash all the time.
One possible solution is to keep records of all the bills that you and
your friends have. This is called a ledger and is depicted in Figure 1-1.

Figure 1-1 A ledger and a set of connected friends (peers)

Definition 1-2 A ledger is a book that contains a record of

transactions.

Further, at the end of every day, you all sit together and refer to the
ledger to do the calculations to settle up. Let’s imagine that there is a
pot that is the place where all of the money is kept. If you spent more
than you received, you put that money in the pot; otherwise, you take
that money out.
We want to design the system such that it functions similarly to a
regular bank account. A holder of a wallet (bank account) should be
able to only send money from their wallet to other wallets. Thus, every
person in the system will have a wallet of a kind, which can also be used
to determine the balance for them. Note that with the current setup
using a ledger, we have to go through all the existing records to
determine the balance of a specific wallet.
If we want to avoid going through all the existing records, there is a
way we can optimize this with unspent transaction outputs (UTXOs), as
we will see later in Chapter 3.
A problem that may arise is the double-spending problem , where
Bob can try to send all of his money to Alice and you at the same time,
thus effectively doubling the money he sends in relation to what he
owned. There are several ways this can be resolved, and the solution
that we will provide will be a simple check of the sum of the inputs and
the sum of the outputs.
A problem that might appear with this kind of system is that anyone
can add a transaction. For example, Bob can add a transaction where
Alice pays him a few dollars without Alice’s approval. We need to re-
think our system such that each transaction will have a way to be
verified/signed.

Definition 1-3 A digital signature is a way to verify the

authenticity of digital messages or documents.

For signing and verifying transactions we will rely on digital signatures

(Figure 1-2). For now, let’s assume that anyone who adds information
to the ledger also adds a signature with each record, and others have no
way to modify the signature, but only to verify it. We will cover the
technical details in the “Encryption” section.

Figure 1-2 Our ledger now contains signatures

Other documents randomly have
different content
what I wanted to know—about my mortgage. I will write in, sending
all the documents. Good-morning.”
Safely out of earshot and eyeshot of Woodman’s office,
Superintendent Wilson had a quiet laugh. “A little diplomacy does it,”
he said to himself. “Now I know all about the stick. And next for
another little exploration.”
The superintendent’s next visit was paid in his proper person.
Driving to Liskeard House, he asked to be shown up to Prinsep’s
room, where everything was still just as it had been when the
murder was discovered. There he made a careful examination of the
room and all its contents, seeking for any weapon with which the
murder could possibly have been done. His search was fruitless;
and, after a while, he passed to the window and gazed out
thoughtfully into the garden below. The roof of the antique temple
showed over the intervening trees; but the place where the murder
of George Brooklyn had taken place was completely hidden by the
trees and the bushes growing around them. The superintendent cast
back in his mind to discover whether the bushes had been searched
for possible clues. He assumed that they had—it was an elementary
precaution—but he had best have a hunt round himself. Something
might have been overlooked. He went down the private staircase
into the garden, and began his search.
Nothing rewarded his efforts, though he spent a good hour
searching; and it was with a puzzled expression that he went
upstairs again to Prinsep’s room, resuming his stand at the window
and gazing out. Suddenly something seemed to catch his attention.
Leaning as far out of the window as he could, he studied intently
what he could see of the roof. “It’s just a possibility,” he muttered, as
he closed the window, and crossed the room.
What Superintendent Wilson had remarked was that almost on
the level of Prinsep’s window was the roof of that part of the house
which projected over the stable-yard. It was not near enough for any
entry to the room to be effected by its means; but it was easily
within reach of a throw, and an object cast away upon it would be
completely invisible and safely disposed of until some day, probably
distant, when the roof might need repair. It was an admirable place
for the bestowal of any inconvenient piece of property.
By means of the landing window, the superintendent found his
way without much difficulty out on to the roof, and was easily able
to climb over its gabled side to the flat space in the centre. And
there at last his efforts were rewarded; for on the roof lay, clearly
just where it had been thrown, a small bag heavily loaded, not with
sand, but with small shot—a deadly weapon. Stuffing the thing into
his pocket, the superintendent climbed back with more difficulty, and
shut the window behind him. He chuckled softly to himself. He had
reasoned aright, and here at last was a clue that had not been laid
to mislead—a real clue that he must make to point straight at the
murderer. He went back to his office to examine his find at leisure.
 Chapter XXXIV.
The Stable-Yard
While Superintendent Wilson, by his own methods, was thus
working towards the solution of the mystery, Joan and Ellery were
also pursuing their investigations along their separate line. There
was but one thing needed, they felt, to complete their case, and turn
their conviction from moral into legal certainty.
How had Woodman got into Liskeard House? That was the
question which Joan had set herself to answer. The coach-yard
seemed to be the only possible means of access. It was a large
square yard opening into Liskeard Street by a pair of massive
wooden doors ten feet high, and a small gate let into the wall at the
side. Neither the wall nor the doors could be climbed without the aid
of a long ladder.
One entering by these doors would find himself in the yard. On
his left he would have the side wall of Liskeard House, which had no
window looking out on to the yard. On his right would be the large
coach-house, now used as a garage, above which lived the chauffeur
and his wife, formerly a domestic of Sir Vernon’s—both servants of
long standing. Their apartment had also a door opening into
Liskeard Street, and a way down into the garage.
Immediately opposite any one entering the yard from the street
was an extension, built out from the side of Liskeard House towards
the back. The ground floor of this was occupied by store-rooms,
accessible only from the yard; but between these a passage led
through directly into the garden. Above were rooms belonging to
Liskeard House, whose windows looked out only upon the garden.
Joan, as she stood in the yard, noticed first that, if the outer door
were open, and the yard itself empty, as at this moment, there was
nothing to prevent any one from walking straight through into the
garden; for, as she knew, the gate leading to the garden, though it
was shut, was never locked save at night. The big front gates of the
yard stood open most of the day; and, in any case, the small gate
beside them was not locked until the whole place was shut up for
the night. A man wishing to get into the garden would only have to
watch until the yard itself was empty, and he would then have every
chance of getting through without being observed. In the chauffeur’s
apartments above the garage, only one window looked down on the
yard, and this, as Joan knew, was a tiny spare room, seldom
occupied. Even if Woodman had come in by this way, there was only
a very slender chance that he had been noticed.
The chauffeur came into the yard from the garage, and Joan
entered into talk with him. Usually, he locked up, when no one had
the car out in the evening, at half-past nine or ten. On this occasion,
Lucas’s car had been in the garage during dinner, and he had kept
the place open after Lucas went in case any one might want a car
out. He had locked the whole place up at eleven o’clock, and had
then gone straight to bed. Had any one, Joan asked, entered by the
yard entrance before he locked up? He had seen no one; but he had
not been in the yard all the time. He went away to ask his wife, and
came back to assure Joan that, although she had been in the yard
part of the time, she, too, had seen no one pass that way. There
was no one else, was there, Joan asked, about that night? No one.
But then the chauffeur seemed to be plunged into thought. “Yes,
miss, there was some one else. Miss Parker—Norah, what used to be
the cook, miss—she came in to help with the dinner, and she stayed
the night with us. She went to bed early, she did—about half-past
ten. She had to leave early next morning—she went away before
they found out what had happened in the night.”
“Was she sleeping in the little room up there?”
“Yes, miss, and when I looked up at eleven o’clock, she was
sitting at the window there. She said she couldn’t sleep, and was
trying to read herself off.”
“Then she might have seen any one come in?”
“Yes, miss, she might.”
 “Do you know where she is now?”
“She’s with my wife this very moment, miss. She’s in a job now,
away in Essex. That’s where she went when she left that morning.
But it’s her day off, miss, and she’s come up to see us.”
Joan asked to speak to the woman, and was soon in the parlour
with her and the chauffeur’s wife.
“Did I see any one come through the coach-yard that night? Yes,
I did, miss; but I didn’t think nothing of it. It was about a quarter to
eleven, and I was looking out of the spare room window when a
gentleman came into the yard. It was too dark down in the yard at
first to see who it was; but as he passed under the lamp by the gate
leading into the garden, I saw his face.”
“Who was it? Did you know him?”
“Mr. Woodman, miss. Of course, I thought it was all right, seeing
as it was him.”
“And he went through into the garden?”
“Yes, miss.”
“You didn’t see him come out again?”
“No, miss. No one else passed through the yard before Mr. Purvis
here came and locked up.”
“Now, Norah, I don’t want you to tell any one—or you, Purvis, or
your wife—that Norah saw Mr. Woodman come in. It’s very
important you shouldn’t mention it just yet.”
Mrs. Purvis curtseyed, and Norah also agreed to say nothing.
Purvis himself began by saying, “Certainly, miss, if you wish it,” and
then he seemed to realise the implication contained in Joan’s
request. His jaw dropped, and his mouth hung open. Then he said,
—
“Beg pardon, miss, but surely you don’t mean as Mr. Woodman
had aught to do with this terrible affair?”
“Never mind, Purvis, just now, what I mean. I’m not accusing
anybody. But I knew some one came in by the yard, and I wanted to
make sure who it was.”
“Well, miss, you can make sure we won’t say nothing about it.”
They kept their word, no doubt; and said nothing to any one
else. But, when Joan had gone, they said a great deal among
themselves. Joan’s questions had been enough to make them
suspect that Woodman might be concerned in the murders. And,
though nothing was said of Joan’s discovery, Purvis’s dark and
unsupported suspicions of Woodman, and Mrs. Purvis’s hints of what
she could say if she had a mind, were soon all round the servants’
hall.
It was not surprising that these rumours soon came to Inspector
Blaikie’s ears. He was not at first inclined to attach much importance
to them; for they appeared to be no more than below-stairs gossip,
and the fact of Woodman’s unpopularity with the servants, which
had not escaped his observation, seemed sufficiently to account for
the vague suspicions. Servants, he said to himself, were always
ready to suspect any one they disliked; and in this case they were all
strong partisans of Winter, and highly indignant at the share of their
attentions which the police had bestowed on the men-servants at
Liskeard House. All the same, the inspector traced the rumours to
the chauffeur’s wife, and made up his mind to have a little talk with
her.
He began brusquely—it was his way in dealing with women
whom he thought he could frighten—by asking her what she meant
by concealing information from the police. The woman was plainly
embarrassed; but she only said that she did not know what he
meant. He accused her of saying, in the servants’ hall, that she knew
who had committed the murders in Liskeard House, but that she
wasn’t going to say anything. Her reply was to deny all knowledge,
and to inform the inspector that those that said she said such things
wasn’t fit—not to associate with the decent folks. The more the
inspector tried to browbeat her, the less would she say. She grew
sulky, and told him to let a poor woman alone, and not go putting
into her mouth things she never said.
She didn’t know anything, and, if she did, she wouldn’t tell him.
Inspector Blaikie retired from the contest beaten, but warning her
that he would call again.
He did not, however, retire so far as to prevent him from seeing
that, as soon as she believed herself to be alone, the chauffeur’s
wife hurried into Liskeard House by the back way, and went straight
up the back stairs. Putting two and two together, he speedily
concluded that she had gone to see Joan Cowper, and that Joan
probably knew all that she knew, and had told her to keep quiet
about it. The inspector made up his mind to see Joan as soon as the
woman had gone.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Purvis was telling Joan about the inspector’s
visit, and begging pardon for having let her tongue wag in the
servants’ hall. “But I didn’t tell him nothing, miss. You can rest
assured of that. I sent him away with a flea in his ear, miss.”
At this moment Ellery was announced. Joan dismissed Mrs. Purvis
with a further caution to say nothing for the present. As soon as she
had gone, Ellery told Joan of his visit to Sir John Bunnery, and of the
fact that Woodman had been in serious financial straits before the
murders took place. “It seems to be true enough, about your
stepfather making a will in his favour. It’s all very odd: I don’t
understand it a bit.”
“I’m afraid there’s almost nothing he wouldn’t do for money—
except murder,” said Joan.
“Old Sir John seemed to think that murder was quite a venial
offence in comparison with getting money by false pretences,” Ellery
answered, laughing.
“Don’t be silly, Bob. I’ve found out how Carter got into the house.
And I’ve got the proof.” And then Joan told her story of the coach-
house yard—her story which proved beyond doubt that Woodman
had been on the scene of the crime.
“Well done, Joan. So that makes it certain he was here.”
“I’m really beginning to think, Bob, we’re rather clever people.”
“My dear, we’ve done the trick. Do you realise that it practically
finishes our case. We’ve got enough now to be quite sure of a
conviction.”
“Oh, Bob! How horrible it is when you put it that way. It has
really been rather fun finding it all out; but now we’ve found out, oh,
what are we to do about it?”
“The obvious thing would be to tell the police.”
“I suppose it would. But think of the trial—the horrible publicity
of it. And I don’t a bit want to see Carter hanged, though he may
deserve it. Think of poor Helen.”
“My dear Joan, of course you don’t. But it’s not so easy to hush
up a thing like this.”
“Bob, need we tell the police? They don’t know what we’ve been
doing. Must we tell them now?”
“Blest if I know, darling. But I forgot to tell you about what the
old lawyer chap, Bunnery, said. He wants it hushed up all right.”
“Then that means we can hush it up.”
“I don’t know whether we can or not. But I tell you what I
suggest we do. You come down with me and see Carter Woodman.
We shall have to tell him what we know, and force him to admit the
whole thing. Then we’ll see what he means to do—perhaps he might
agree to run away to Australia, or something, before the police find
out. And then we can see old Bunnery and get his advice, and
decide what to do about telling them.”
Before Joan could answer this string of proposals, there came a
knock at the door, and Inspector Blaikie walked into the room. Joan
and Ellery evidently showed their embarrassment, for he stood
looking curiously at them for a moment, and then said reassuringly
that he had only come in to have a word or two, if he might. Joan
asked him to sit down, and offered him a cigarette. The inspector
lighted it deliberately, and then he suddenly shot a question at them.
“What is it you have told the chauffeur’s wife not to tell me?”
Joan looked quickly at Ellery, and Ellery looked at Joan; but
neither of them answered.
“Come, come, Miss Cowper. You really must not try to prevent
the police from getting information or you will force us to conclude
that you wish to shield the murderer.”
Still Joan made no answer.
“I hope, Miss Cowper, that it is only that you and your friend
have been doing a little detective work on your own, and wanted to
have all the credit for yourselves. But don’t you think the time has
come for telling me what you know?”
Ellery did not answer the question directly. “Look here, inspector,”
he said, “you think we know all about these murders, and are trying
to keep the truth from you.”
 “It looks mighty like it.”
“Well, in a sense, I don’t say we haven’t been keeping something
back. But I give you my word that we’re not in collusion with the
murderer or anything of that sort. There is a very special reason why
we can’t tell you quite everything just now—for what it is worth.”
“Does the very special reason apply to Miss Cowper as well?”
“Yes,” said Joan; “for the moment it does.”
Ellery went on. “Of course, I know you have a grievance. You’re
going to tell us that we are abetting the criminal, whoever he is, and
that we shall be getting into trouble if we’re not careful.”
“So you will,” said the inspector. “Very serious trouble.”
“All the same, inspector, I’m afraid we must risk it. Very likely we
shall be free to tell you the whole story, or what we know of it, in a
day or two. But we won’t tell you now. That’s flat.”
“A day or two is ample time for a criminal to get away.”
“Maybe; but I don’t think you need worry about that. You’ve
given him enough time to get away if he wants to. In any case, we
are not going to tell you. I’m sorry, but——”
“I warn you that you are conspiring to defeat the ends of justice.”
“Sorry, and all that. Another time, inspector, we shall look
forward to an interesting talk. But for the present—Good-morning.”
The inspector took the hint, and left the room in a very bad
temper. His parting shot was that he must report their conduct to his
official superior.
“What on earth are we to do now?” said Joan.
“Go and see Carter Woodman at once, I think. When we’ve done
that, we shall know better how to act.”
“But suppose he runs away when he hears our story—flies the
country, I mean.”
“Wouldn’t that be the best way out? I don’t want to see him
hanged any more than you do.”
“As the inspector said, we run some risk ourselves that way; but
the worst of it is that the whole story is bound to come out.”
“I don’t see how it can be kept secret in any case—or rather, I
only see one possible way.”
“What’s that?”
 “Wait till we’ve been to Woodman. I want to see if he will be man
enough to take it.”
“I don’t know what you mean. But I suppose we had better see
Woodman.”
“Yes, and there’s no time to lose, if the inspector is on the trail.”
Joan and Ellery took a taxi, and ordered the driver to drive to
Woodman’s office. But they underestimated the inspector’s
promptness in action. They did not know that behind them followed
another taxi, containing Inspector Blaikie and two plain-clothes
detectives.
 Chapter XXXV.
An Order for Bulbs
Superintendent Wilson’s examination of his find took him some
little time. The bag was of ordinary stout canvas, most unlikely to be
capable of identification. The small-shot also was of a kind which
can be purchased at any gunsmith’s and at most ironmongers. To
trace the criminal by means of either of these clues seemed virtually
impossible. But this was not the end of the matter. Taking the shot,
the superintendent carefully sifted it, and by-and-by he had
separated from the pile of shot quite a number of other minute
objects which had lain among it. There were several small pieces of
cardboard, a few fragments of matches, some wisps of tobacco, a
few balls of fluff, two pins, three small nails, and several tiny scraps
of paper. Some or all of these might, of course, have got mixed up
with the shot before ever it came into the murderer’s possession,
and most of them were not at all likely in any case to afford a clue.
But the chance was worth trying; and the inspector made a minute
examination of them all. The scraps of paper alone seemed to hold
out any hope of a clue. Two of them were blank: one was an
indistinguishable fragment of a newspaper, apparently from the
typography The Times: the other two, which fitted together,
contained a few words written by hand. The words were
unimportant, merely: “12 doz. hyacinths; 15 doz. tulips; 10 doz. sq.
——” the last word being cut short by a tear. The paper was
evidently part of an order, or of a memorandum for an order, for
garden bulbs. But the writing—the superintendent compared it with
a note which he had received from Woodman—the writing was very
like. He could not say positively that they were the same. He must
compare the scrap of paper with other specimens of Woodman’s
hand. A second visit to Woodman’s office, in the guise of Mr. Porter,
the unbusinesslike mortgage-maker, would probably afford the
opportunity. Superintendent Wilson called a taxi, and drove away in
the direction of Lincoln’s Inn.
The Fates, watching outside that very ordinary-looking office, had
a more than usually amusing time that afternoon. As Joan and
Ellery, after dismissing their taxi, entered the outer office, a second
taxi drew up a few doors off, just out of view. Inspector Blaikie leapt
out, and after him two plain-clothes officers. The inspector rapidly
posted his men. “There is no back way out of these premises,” he
said, “so we have an easy job. I am going right in now, and I want
you two to wait outside, and follow any of our people who come out.
You know them all by sight. If Carter Woodman comes out, don’t
lose sight of him on any account. But don’t detain him unless it is
quite impossible to keep an eye on him. I shall probably keep my
eye on the other two myself.” So saying, the inspector disappeared
into the building. He had no clearly formed plan in his mind; but his
suspicions had been thoroughly aroused, and he feared that Joan
and Ellery had gone to warn Woodman to fly from the country.
A few minutes after the inspector had entered the office his two
subordinates had the surprise of their lives. A third taxi drew up at
the door, and out of it stepped no less a person that Superintendent
Wilson. While they were debating whether to speak to him, his quick
eye caught sight of them, and, rapidly walking a little way along the
street in order to be out of view, he beckoned them to come.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
In a few words the men told him that Inspector Blaikie, and Joan
and Ellery as well, were inside, and that they had received
instructions to remain on the watch, and to follow Woodman if he
came out. The superintendent thought rapidly. If he went in, it
would be obviously impossible to maintain his alias of Mr. Porter, and
he ran the risk of interrupting a most important conversation. If, on
the other hand, he stayed outside, what blunder might not be
committed in his absence? Telling the men to remain on guard and
follow the inspector’s instruction, he entered the building.
 He did not, however, go to the door of Woodman’s outer office.
Instead, he went along the corridor to where, as he remembered,
the private door from Woodman’s inner sanctum gave on the
passage. There he paused and listened. Some one was speaking
within; but not a word was audible through the stout door. There
was no keyhole, and nothing was to be seen either. The
superintendent must fare further, to the back of the building, if he
sought to find out what was in progress in Woodman’s room. There
might be a window, looking on the room, through which he could
watch unobserved. He soon found a back-door, leading into a small
flagged yard at the rear of the building. It was locked; but the key
was in place. Unlocking it he slipped out into the yard, and easily
located the window of Woodman’s room. By standing on a water-
butt, he could see the three people—Joan, Ellery, and Carter
Woodman—within. But the window was closed, and he could hear
nothing. He remained at his post of vantage, watching.
 Chapter XXXVI.
An Afternoon Call
Hardly had Joan and Ellery passed from the outer office into
Woodman’s private room when the inspector entered the room they
had left, and asked if Mr. Woodman was in. Moorman, who had met
the inspector several times lately, saw nothing strange in the visit,
and merely replied that his employer was in, but that he was at the
moment engaged. “If you care to wait, sir, I dare say he won’t be
long.”
Blaikie said that he would wait, and Moorman thereupon
suggested that he should go in and tell his principal that the
inspector was there. But the inspector told him not to bother: he
would take his chance when Woodman was free. He sat down,
therefore, to wait in the outer office, improving the minutes by
conversing with the loquacious old clerk about his employer’s affairs.
Meanwhile, Joan and Ellery were seated with Carter Woodman.
He had greeted them rather effusively on their entrance; and, in
Moorman’s presence, they had thought it best to shake hands and
behave as if nothing were the matter. Woodman had placed chairs
for them, and had again sat down at his desk. While they spoke he
continued for a while mechanically opening, and glancing at, the pile
of letters before him.
It was Joan who spoke first. “We have come here,” she said,
“because it seemed the only thing to do. When we have heard what
you have to say we shall know better what our next step must be.”
Something in her voice caused Woodman to look up sharply. The
tone was hard, and a glance at his two visitors showed him that
their errand was not a pleasant one. But he looked down again and
went on opening his letters without making any sign.
 “We have to tell you,” Joan went on, “that we know now who
killed John Prinsep and poor George.”
Woodman gave a start as she spoke; but all he said was, “Then,
my dear Joan, you know a great deal more than I do.”
“I will put it in another way,” said Joan. “We know that you killed
them.” She got the words out with an effort, breathing hard and
clutching the arm of the chair as she spoke.
Woodman dropped the letter he was holding and looked straight
at her.
“My dear Joan,” he said, “are you quite mad? And you too, Mr.
Ellery?”
“No, we’re not mad. We know,” said Ellery, with a short, uneasy
laugh—a laugh that grated.
Woodman looked from the one to the other.
“I fear you are both mad,” said he very quietly. “And now, will
one of you please tell me what you mean by this extraordinary
accusation?”
“You had better hear what we have to say before you start
protesting,” said Ellery. “Let me tell you exactly what happened at
Liskeard House last Tuesday. Then you will see that we know. You
are supposed to have been at your hotel in the small writing-room
on the first floor between 10.45 and 11.30, or after.”
“So I was, of course.”
“But we can produce a gentleman who was in the writing-room
between those hours, and can swear that you were not.”
“Oh, I may have slipped out of the room for a while. But it is
preposterous——”
“You had better hear me out. This gentleman saw you leave the
writing-room and go downstairs at a few minutes to eleven. Shortly
after, he went to the room himself and remained there three-
quarters of an hour. He saw you return to the writing-room rather
before a quarter to twelve.”
“This is pure nonsense. But what of it, even if it were true?”
“This. When you left the room you went down to the basement
of the hotel, which was deserted, and let yourself out by unbarring
the side door leading from the Grill Room into St. John’s Street. You
also returned that way shortly after half-past eleven.”
“Again, I say that you are talking absolute nonsense. But, if it
pleases you, pray continue this fairy tale.”
Joan took up the story. “You walked across to Liskeard House,
and entered the garden through the coach-yard shortly before it was
locked for the night. I will pass over what you did next; but at a time
shortly before half-past eleven—probably about a quarter-past—you
put on John Prinsep’s hat and coat and walked up and down the
garden, imitating his lameness, in a spot where you could be seen
from the back of the theatre. You then went upstairs to John’s room,
and delivered, imitating my stepfather’s voice, a false telephone
message purporting to come from him to his club in Pall Mall. Next
you put on George’s hat and coat, and dressed in them walked out
of the front door in such a way that the servants, seeing you at a
distance, readily mistook you for George. Am I right, so far?”
“I am listening, my dear Joan, because I had better hear the
whole of this wild story that something—or some one”—here he
turned and glared at Ellery—“has put into your head. But, of course,
the whole thing is monstrous.”
“You need not blame Mr. Ellery. He and I have worked it all out
together, and we can prove all we say. I should have mentioned that
before leaving Liskeard House you arranged the scene of the
murders so as to make it seem, first of all, that John and George
had killed each other. Under John’s body you placed a blood-stained
handkerchief belonging to George, and you also left one of George’s
knives sticking in the body. You killed George with a weapon which,
as you well knew, had on it John’s finger-marks. Of course you wore
gloves, and therefore left no marks which could be identified as your
own. The finger-marks on the club with which George was killed
were made by John earlier in the day when he showed you the club
before dinner. They were defaced, but not obliterated, by the marks
made later by your gloved hands. Is that correct?”
“Of course it is not correct. It is a parcel of lies, the whole lot of
it.”
 “Really, Mr. Woodman,” said Ellery, “you will find that the whole
story is remarkably convincing to others, if not to you. Let me give
you an account of the objects you had in view. You knew that it was
physically impossible for John and George to have killed each other;
but by leaving the signs as you did you hoped to create the
impression that either might have killed the other. Your main object,
however, was not to create suspicion against either of these two, but
to incriminate another person, whom you desired to remove for
reasons of your own. You therefore faked the telephone message I
have mentioned; and you also left Walter Brooklyn’s stick in John
Prinsep’s room. You also detached the ferrule from the stick with
your penknife, and left the ferrule in the garden on the spot where
George was murdered. By actual murder you had already, on
Tuesday night, removed two of the three persons who stood
between you and Sir Vernon’s fortune. You hoped that, by means of
the clues which you provided, the law would do your work in
removing the third. I will not ask you whether this is true. We know
it.”
Woodman shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, if you know it,” he said,
“of course there is nothing for me to say.”
“You left Liskeard House wearing George’s hat and overcoat.
These you took back to the hotel, and stowed away in a handbag for
the night. You went out the next morning carrying the handbag,
which you brought to this office. At lunch-time you took it with you.
I do not know where you lunched, but you went into the cloak-room
of the Avenue Restaurant, as if you were going to lunch there, and
left the hat and coat hanging on a peg. You hoped that it would be
impossible to trace them to you. They have been traced.”
During Ellery’s last speech Woodman’s forced calm had first
showed some sign of breaking. But he pulled himself together with
an effort. “I must say you have laid this plot very carefully,” he said.
“Unfortunately, not only have you been traced,” Joan went on,
“but you were unwise enough not to notice, when you left the coat,
that it lacked a button. You left that button deep down in the corner
of the bag which is now in that cupboard over there.”
 With a sudden cry Woodman rose from his chair and sprang
towards the cupboard. He tore the bag open and felt wildly in it.
Then he flung the bag away.
“No,” said Joan, “the button is not there, Mr. Woodman—now. It
is safe somewhere else.”
“And I think, Mr. Woodman, what you have just done rather
disposes of the pose of injured innocence. Don’t you?” asked Ellery.
Woodman kicked the bag savagely into a corner and sank into his
chair. His face had gone dead white. Shakily he poured out and
drank a glass of water.
“Your hopes of removing my stepfather by due process of law,”
Joan continued, “were unfortunately frustrated. You were, therefore,
in the position of having committed two murders for nothing, unless
you could find some fresh means of profiting by them. You found
such means. As soon as you heard of my stepfather’s release you
made your plans. Soon after his release you met him, and somehow
or other, persuaded him to make a will in your favour. I do not know
how you did it; but I presume there was some agreement between
you to share the proceeds of your deal. You then attempted, on the
strength of your joint expectations under Sir Vernon’s will, to raise a
large loan from one who was a friend of yours—Sir John Bunnery.
You were in serious financial trouble, and only a considerable
immediate supply of money could save you from bankruptcy and
disgrace. That, I think, is correct.”
Joan paused, but this time Woodman had nothing to say. His face
had gone grayer still. He stared at Joan, and his hand strayed
towards one of the drawers of the table before him. But he remained
silent.
This time, however, Joan pressed him for an answer.
“Do you admit now that what I have said is true?” she asked.
And, as he still said nothing, “We can prove it all, you know,” Ellery
added.
Woodman pulled himself together with an effort. “You have told
the police all this?” he asked.
“Not a word as yet,” said Joan. “We decided to see you first.”
“May I ask why?”
 “If it can be helped, we do not want your wife to suffer more
than she must for what you have done. Nor do we want a scandal. If
you will leave the country, and never come back, we will do what we
can to hush the whole thing up.”
A light came into Woodman’s ashen face. “I see,” he said.
“Do you admit that all we have told you is true?”
“It doesn’t seem to be much good denying it now.”
“You will sign, in our presence, a confession that you committed
these murders?”
“I don’t know what for. No, I won’t sign anything.”
“But you admit it.”
“Between ourselves, yes. In public, a thousand times no.”
Woodman even smiled as he said this.
“You admit it to us.”
“Yes, yes. Haven’t I said so? But there are some things not even
you seem to know.”
“Won’t you tell us them, Mr. Woodman, just to make our story
complete?” said Ellery. “Remember that we are proposing to let you
go. We are taking some risks in doing that.”
“Not for my sake, I’ll be bound. But I don’t mind telling you.
What do you want to know?”
“How the murders were actually done.”
“Oh, I have no objection to telling you. Indeed, I flatter myself
the thing was rather prettily arranged.”
Woodman had almost regained his outward composure and
spoke with some of his accustomed assurance.
“I went into the garden of Liskeard House, just as you said, by
the coach-yard. I have no idea how you discovered that. Then I
went straight up the back stairs to Prinsep’s room. No one saw me
go upstairs, I take it, or you would have mentioned the fact. I found
Prinsep at his table writing. I laid him out with a big blow on the
back of the head.”
“With what weapon?”
“With a sand-bag. Then it has not been found? I threw it out
afterwards on to the roof of the stables out of sight. Then, as I
wasn’t sure if he was dead, I made sure with a knife I found lying on
the table. It belonged, I knew, to George Brooklyn. I don’t know
how it got there. It wasn’t part of my plan. I finished him off with
that, and went out on to the landing. Just then I heard some one
coming upstairs. It was George Brooklyn. Until that moment I had
no definite intention of killing George that night. I meant to leave
signs which would show that George and Walter had conspired to kill
Prinsep. I had put a handkerchief of George’s under the body.
George’s coming just then was deuced awkward. I had no time to
clear away the traces, and I had somehow to prevent him from
entering the room. So I met him on the landing and told him that
Prinsep was in the garden and wanted him to go down. He went
down the back stairs with me like a lamb. It was then it occurred to
me that, as he had seen me up in Prinsep’s room, I should have to
kill him too. I led him over towards the temple and let him get a few
paces in front. Then I seized the club from the Hercules statue and
smashed his head in from behind. After that I had to consider how
to cover my tracks. I dragged the body into the temple entrance,
fetched Prinsep’s coat and hat and walked up and down the garden,
as you know. Then I went up again to Prinsep’s room, and sent off
that telephone message and arranged things there, leaving George’s
handkerchief under the body and Walter’s stick in the room. I had
already dropped the ferrule in the garden, and a note in Prinsep’s
writing, making an appointment for the garden. He had sent it to me
the previous day. George had left his hat and overcoat on the
landing. I had intended to slip out unobserved somehow; but seeing
the coat and hat gave me an idea. I put them on, and walked out as
George Brooklyn, thus throwing every one wrong, as I thought,
about the time of the murders. All the rest you seem to know.”
“H’m,” said Ellery. “You are a remarkably cold-blooded scoundrel.”
“Perhaps; but we can keep our opinions of each other to
ourselves. You would prefer me to go away rather than stay and face
your accusation. Isn’t that so?”
“I suppose you can put it that way,” said Ellery.
“Well, I can’t go without money. That’s the position. And I want a
good lot. I can’t lay hands on money at short notice, and you will
have to find it. Besides, remember that, if you don’t accuse me, I am
still Walter Brooklyn’s heir, and he is Sir Vernon’s. I understand it is
most unlikely Sir Vernon will live to make another will. Now, how
much can you provide—and how soon? That is the business
proposition we have to settle between us. I am prepared to
disappear for the present, and I will go further, for a suitable
consideration—and promise never to come back to this country. But
my condition is that I get half of whatever comes to Joan when Sir
Vernon dies. How does that strike you?”
Joan had listened with a feeling of nausea to Woodman’s
confession. But now she broke in indignantly. “I am afraid,” she said,
“that you are a little after the fair. It is quite true that, under my
stepfather’s new will, you appear to be the principal heir. It is also
true that my stepfather stood to inherit a large sum of money, until
Sir Vernon made a new will.” Joan said these words very slowly and
distinctly. As Woodman heard them the colour, which had quite come
back, faded again from his face, and he stared at her with a
consternation that deepened as she went on.
“We had not quite finished our story. After your wicked bargain
with my stepfather you attempted to raise money on the strength of
being his, and therefore indirectly Sir Vernon’s, heir. I know how
hard up you were—indeed pressure from creditors will, I hope,
provide a good enough reason for your absconding now. If you
choose to spread the report that you have died abroad, we shall
certainly not object. But you will get no money from us. As I was
saying, you went to Sir John Bunnery and tried to raise a large sum
from him on the ground of your expectations. But you may not know
that Sir John at once wrote privately to Sir Vernon to ask whether
you were really the heir, or that yesterday Sir Vernon rallied enough
to make a new will. That will, of course, excludes both you and my
stepfather altogether.”
At these words the colour came suddenly back into Woodman’s
cheeks. In a second he pulled open a drawer in the desk before him,
seized from it a revolver and took aim at Joan. But Ellery was just
too quick for him, knocking up his arm so that the bullet embedded
itself in the ceiling. Woodman at once turned on Ellery, closing with
him, and a fierce struggle began. At this moment there was a sound
of breaking glass, and, rapidly opening the window through the hole
which he had made, Superintendent Wilson leapt into the room. At
the same time, the door leading to the outer office began to rattle as
if some one were attempting to open it from without; but it was
locked, and resisted all efforts to break it open. Then some one
smashed the glass panel above and the head of Inspector Blaikie,
with Moorman’s terrified face behind, appeared in the gap. At sight
of the superintendent, Ellery relaxed his hold for a moment and
Woodman broke loose. But this time, instead of aiming at Joan, he
turned the weapon upon himself. Putting the barrel of the revolver to
his temple he fired. When, a moment later, the inspector forced an
entrance, he found Joan, Ellery, and Superintendent Wilson bending
over Carter Woodman’s body.
 Chapter XXXVII.
A Happy Ending
Joan, Ellery, and the superintendent faced one another across
Woodman’s body. Moorman, his nerves gone, crouched in a corner,
muttering. The inspector bent down and made a quick inspection of
the body.
“H’m,” he said, “he’s quite dead.”
The superintendent turned to Ellery. “And now perhaps it is time
for you to give me a little explanation.”
“Of this?” asked Ellery, pointing to the body.
“Of everything,” was the answer.
“It is straightforward enough,” said Ellery. “Mr. Woodman, as you
will easily discover if you ask that whimpering object over there, has
been for some time in grave financial difficulties. This morning he
was disappointed of raising a large sum for which he had hoped;
and I am afraid this is the result.”
“Is that all you have to tell me?”
“What more should I have?”
“May I ask whether you have any theory as to the murderer of
George Brooklyn, or of John Prinsep?”
“I have no theory. And I cannot see what that has to do with this
suicide.” Ellery emphasised the last word.
“Oh, that’s your line, is it? And supposing I suggested that this
gentleman here”—he pointed to Woodman’s body—“was the
murderer.”
“I should ask you what evidence you have to support such an
extraordinary suggestion.”
“Very well, Mr. Ellery. But I had better tell you that I already have
full knowledge of the truth. That is why I am here. You and the
young lady here had much better make a clean breast of it.”
“Don’t you think, superintendent, that you had better deal with
one thing at a time? Surely, for the moment, this dead man claims
your attention. You know where to find us if you want us. I shall
take Miss Cowper home.”
“By all means, Mr. Ellery. There is work for me here. But I shall
have to call on you both later in the day. Could I meet you—say at
Liskeard House—about six o’clock?”
“Oh, if that’s the attitude you take, I suppose we’d better have it
out now.”
“That will be best, I think.” Then Superintendent Wilson turned to
the inspector, who had not recovered from his amazement at the
miraculous appearance of his superior. The superintendent pointed
to Woodman’s body. “Call in your men and have that thing removed.
Then we can say what we have to say.”
So, when the body had been taken away, Joan and Ellery found
themselves face to face with Superintendent Wilson. “I will tell you
what I know,” he said, “and then I think you will see the wisdom of
letting me hear your story. But first there is one thing I must do.”
Going to Woodman’s desk, he took from his pocket-book the
scraps of paper which he had found, and rapidly compared them
with other specimens of Woodman’s handwriting. “Just as I
thought,” he said, “and now I am ready.”
“Fire away, then,” said Ellery.
“Well, it was clear enough to me, from an early stage in the case
—even before you confirmed my view with your very convincing
alibi, that Mr. Walter Brooklyn was not the murderer. That was the
assumption on which I set to work.”
“May I ask why?” said Joan. “Of course, I knew he hadn’t done
it; but what made you——?”
“A quite proper question, Miss Cowper. What made me take that
view was a very strong conviction that the clues—the second set of
clues, I mean—pointed far too directly to Mr. Brooklyn. They looked
as if they had been deliberately laid. I ought to have seen that at
once; but I was put off by the other set of clues—the obviously false
ones—that the police were meant to see through from the first. It
took me a little time to realise that the murderer had been clever
enough to lay two separate sets of false clues—one meant to be
seen through, and one meant to mislead.”
“Yes, we got to that, too, though we didn’t put it quite as you
do.”
“Quite so. Well, as soon as I reached that conclusion, it became
clear that the murderer had strong reasons for removing, not only
your two cousins, but also your stepfather. My next step, therefore,
was to discover who would be most likely to inherit Sir Vernon
Brooklyn’s money if Mr. Walter Brooklyn was safely out of the way.”
“So that brought you to Carter Woodman at once?”
“In a sense, yes. But of course at that stage I had no sort of
proof. I set out to prove what was only a theory.”
“Yes, that was what we did. Tell us what you found out,” said
Ellery, half-rising from his chair in his excitement.
“You remember that Mr. Walter Brooklyn’s stick was found in Mr.
Prinsep’s room. Well, I succeeded in proving that Mr. Brooklyn had
left that stick in Carter Woodman’s office on the day of the murders.”
“Lord, we never thought of that,” said Ellery.
“Moorman, whom you know, admitted that to me, not knowing
who I was. I got it out of him when he thought I was merely a client
taking an outside interest in the case. He didn’t realise that it was of
importance.”
“And that was your proof?” asked Joan, with an air of
disappointment.
“Dear me, Miss Cowper, I should be very sorry to try to hang a
man on such evidence. That was only a beginning. What puzzled me
was that, whereas the weapon with which Mr. George Brooklyn was
killed was found on the scene of the murder, there was no sign of
any weapon which could have killed Mr. Prinsep. So I made a
thorough fresh search, and at last, on the roof of the building which
projects over towards the coach-yard, I found the weapon, where
the murderer had thrown it out of sight. It was a bag filled with
small-shot.”
“But I don’t see how you could prove whose it was.”
 “One moment, Mr. Ellery. I took that bag away, and went
carefully through its contents. Among them I found two tiny scraps
of paper, obviously part of an order, or a memorandum of an order,
for garden bulbs. When I went to the desk there just now, it was to
confirm my view that the writing was Carter Woodman’s. I was
right.”
“So that proved it?” said Joan.
“I would not go so far as to say that,” said Superintendent
Wilson. “But it made a case, with certain other points which you
probably know as well as I—Woodman’s financial difficulties, and so
on. I had not, however, finished my case. In fact, when I came here,
I was pursuing my investigations. Your presence and that of the
inspector were quite unexpected. Indeed, I may say that you
interrupted me.”
“Sorry and all that,” said Ellery. “But, you see, we had finished
our case, and proved Carter Woodman’s guilt so that he knew the
game was up. Hence the end of the story as you saw it just now.”
“I suggest, Mr. Ellery—and Miss Cowper—that, in view of what
we both know, the only possible course is to pool our information. I
have told you my evidence. Will you be good enough now to tell me
yours?”
Joan and Ellery looked at each other, and Joan nodded. They
both realised that it was inevitable that they should tell
Superintendent Wilson all they knew.
“You tell him, Bob. I’m not up to it,” said Joan, smiling faintly.
“But, superintendent, you realise, don’t you, how anxious we have
been that this horrible story should not come to light. It has caused
misery enough already: the telling of it will only cause more.”
“I understand,” said the superintendent.
“Then can’t we still keep it to ourselves?” said Joan, with a note
of hope in her voice.
The superintendent shook his head. “I suppose you realise,” he
said, “that you have both committed a very serious offence. But I
won’t be too hard on you—especially as you have shown yourselves
such creditable amateurs in my line of business,” he added with a
smile. “But I am afraid the whole story must come out now. There is
really no question about that.”
“But surely,” said Joan, “there’s no one to try now: so you can’t
have a trial. I don’t see why you should want to drag the whole
beastly story to light. It will——”
“Pardon me, Miss Cowper. There will have to be an inquest on
Carter Woodman, and you and Mr. Ellery will have to tell what you
know.”
“But can’t we say he committed suicide—it’s quite true, he did,
and leave it at that,” said Joan.
“Yes,” Ellery put in, “and give evidence about his embarrassed
financial position as a reason for taking his life.”
“Quite impossible,” said the superintendent. “I fear the story
must come out; but, as there will be no trial, there will not really be
very much publicity. You will do best to tell the whole story at the
inquest. It will all blow over very soon.”
“But what about poor Helen—I mean Mrs. Woodman?” said Joan.
“I am afraid she will have to bear it as best she can.”

So it was done. At the inquest the whole story was told, both by
Joan and Ellery and by Superintendent Wilson. The papers the next
day were full of it, and full, too, of compliments both to the
professionals and to the amateurs on the skill shown in unravelling
the mystery. But that same day came a parliamentary crisis. The old
Prime Minister resigned, and a new one—in the name of
conservatism and tranquillity—took his place. Parliament was
dissolved, and the drums beat and beacons flared in anticipation of
an “appeal to the people.” In a few days, the Brooklyn mystery was
forgotten, except by those directly concerned and by a few
specialists in the records of crime.

Joan and Ellery, of course, are married, and quite disgustingly

rich, now that Sir Vernon is dead. They live at Liskeard House when
they are in town, and Ellery is managing director of the Brooklyn
Corporation. He has made many attempts to get Marian to return to
the stage; and perhaps he will yet succeed. For he has just written a
play in which, she agrees, the leading part was made for her. Family
matters keep Joan rather busy at present; but her first play,
produced a year ago by the Brooklyn Corporation, was a great
success. She is thinking of collaborating with her husband in another,
with a strong detective interest.
Ellery summed up the situation the other day, when he and Joan
were talking over the days of the great Brooklyn mystery. “Well, my
dear, it was sad about poor old George, but you must agree that the
other two were really a good riddance.” And, although one of them
had been in a way her suitor, I think Joan did agree. But all she said
was “Poor Marian!”

THE END
 Transcriber’s Note
The Brooklyn Murders was originally published in England in 1923
by Collins. This transcription was made from the text of the US
edition published in 1924 by Thomas Seltzer, Inc. However, the
following changes have been made to correct what are believed to
be unambiguous printer’s errors.

Two missing quotation marks have been inserted.

“interupted” has been changed to “interrupted” (Ch. XI).
“followng” has been changed to “following” (Ch. XII).
“But’s there’s” has been changed to “But there’s” (Ch. XIX).
“a few minutes, time” has been changed to “a few minutes’
time” (Ch. XXII).
“intrudng” has been changed to “intruding” (Ch. XXIX).
“hankerchief” has been changed to “handkerchief” (Ch. XXXVI).
“convicition” has been changed to “conviction” (Ch. XXXVII).

Additionally, in the original text of Chapter XXIV, the column

headings in the list of suspects were only repeated once per page
(i.e., a resumption of the list appearing lower on the same page
would omit the column headings). For this transcription, the column
headings are included with each resumption.
 *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BROOKLYN
MURDERS ***

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