They seem to be getting in
fashion." "What! another body?" "Well, sir, the body isn't exactly found yet, but there is a certain
Count, well-known to be rich, who was taking a foot tour through the
country alone. His family expected him home on a certain day, and as he
hasn't turned up yet, they suspect that he has been robbed and
murdered." "That may be merely a suspicion. How long has he been missing?" "Three days, they say." "Three days! Why, a man doesn't bind himself to a day or two when out on
a foot tour. He may remain another three days, or a week longer, and
then return unhurt." "Well, sir, it may be as you say, but as the Count was known by his
relations to be a very punctual man, and never to fail in his
appointments, you see, it is natural they should feel uneasy." "True, especially as three days ago was about the time of the other
murder, and they may get it into their heads that the two murders
occurred in the same night. Was he a married man?" "No, sir; quite young, they say." "Humph! When did you say the body of the Henker would be
buried--to-morrow?" "About ten, I think, sir." "Ah! then I must be there early, as I want to examine the corpse
myself." "Oh, decidedly, sir. I will bring you to the place to-morrow in good
time." Our friends now felt inclined for their night's rest, so their host
showed them into a room with two beds, and wishing them a good night,
left them to undress, and before many minutes had passed both were sound
asleep. The following morning early our two friends, in the company of their
host, started from the inn to visit the corpse of the murdered
executioner. As they entered the hall where the body lay exposed, Fritz
instantly recognised the clothes; if not the identical vestments worn by
the defunct twelve years ago, at least, of the same colour and material,
being, as I have said before, a doublet and hose of crimson, a colour
that he seems to have been partial to. "Yes," said Fritz; "these are the Henker's clothes, I've no doubt." Then, after examining the form laid out before him, he was observed to
start slightly, and he added in a whisper to his friend: "Ludwig, this
is not the body of Franz Wenzel--I'll take my oath of that." "How! Not Franz Wenzel! Who else should it be, then?" "That I am not prepared to say, but it is not the body of the Henker;
that is certain. Remember that I passed a night at Wenzel's house;
during that time I took note of the features and figure of the
Scharfrichter, and though twelve years have passed since I saw him, I
can swear----"

"But how! His own family have recognised him. What further proof would
you have?" Then addressing the landlord, Ludwig said: "Is it true, landlord, that
his own family have recognised the body?" "Yes, sir; at least, the son did. I don't know whether his wife did or
not, as she has been laid up for ever so long with paralysis, poor soul. It may be she has never been informed of the murder. One does not like
to frighten invalids, you know." "Well, well--enough if the corpse has been recognised by the son." "Yes, sir, he recognised it. It is true, he was a little the worse for
liquor when they brought him before the corpse of his father; but when
is he otherwise, for the matter of that? As sad a young dog as ever
lived that same--inherits all the vices of his father. Nevertheless, who
is there in the township that does not recognise the Henker's red legs?" "You see, therefore, my friend," said Ludwig, turning to his companion,
"that you are mistaken. Everybody recognises him." "I see nothing of the sort," replied the Englishman, doggedly; "and I am
still prepared to swear that the corpse before us is not that of Franz
Wenzel." "My dear Fritz," said Engstein, "you are obstinate. What reason can you
possibly have for saying so?" "Observe the hands of the corpse," said Fritz, in a low tone. "Do they
look like the hands of an executioner? They are long and delicate. Those
of Franz Wenzel were hard, rough, and hairy, with square stunted
fingers; besides, the headsman wore no ring. This hand, though no ring
is visible, has a depression on the forefinger, as if the owner were in
the constant habit of wearing one." "Ha! say you so?" exclaimed his friend, and a strange expression came
over his face. "Then," pursued Fritz, "observe the clothes. Do they look as if they
were made for the body? Franz Wenzel had enormously developed calves,
and his hose fitted tightly. Do these hose fit tightly? Look at these
limbs, that, compared with the Henker's, are but those of a boy." "Humph! I believe you are right, Fritz, after all," said Engstein; "but
it never would have struck me if you had not pointed it out, as it is so
long ago since I set eyes upon him, and then only for a moment. You took
a more complete survey of him, and your evidence may prove useful. We
will look into the matter together. It is strange, however, that no one
should have been struck in the same manner as yourself." "Well, I don't know," responded Fritz. "The people in these small
villages are not always of the brightest. Then the headsman's house
being so far away from the town, few people have the opportunity of
taking a minute survey of him. The people here content themselves with
recognising the clothes. Franz's wife is laid up with paralysis, and has
not seen the body, while his son only recognised it when in a drunken
state. Do you call that sufficient evidence to prove that the corpse
before us is that of the executioner? Would you like another proof that
this is no more Franz Wenzel than I am?" "Well," said Ludwig. "I remember a scar upon the right wrist that he showed me the night I
put up at his house," said the Englishman; "and which he told me had
been inflicted on him by a piece of broken plate hurled at him by his
Poltergeist. I remember that he said he should carry that mark with him
to the grave. If this is the corpse of Franz Wenzel we shall not fail to
discover the mark." So saying, he bared the right arm of the corpse and examined it
carefully. No such mark was to be found. The arm was free from scar or
brand, and was delicate in form, almost like that of a maiden's. Moreover, there was a scanty covering of dark hair upon it, while the
hair on the arms of the executioner, if you remember rightly, was red
and profuse. Even Engstein remarked this, and was now convinced beyond a
doubt that the murdered man was not Franz Wenzel. "Is any search being made now for the head of the corpse?" demanded
Engstein of his host, who had withdrawn some paces from the two friends,
and consequently had not heard the doubt that had been suddenly cast
upon the public opinion. "No active search, I believe, sir," was the reply. "We will make the search ourselves, my friend," whispered Engstein to
Fritz; then added to his host, "My friend and I will take a stroll
together.