The Purple Fern by Fergus Hume — Read

Mr. Horran was as dead as a door nail. There could be no doubt about that. While Chalks shivered and wrung his hands in the middle of the room, demoralised and helpless, Clarice bent over the bed, in a dazed manner. She could scarcely grasp the situation, notwithstanding that it had been foreshadowed -- as it were -- by the mystery of the grey man. Without doubt, he was the assassin. The sinister omen of the Purple Fern had been fulfilled. An eighth victim had been struck down, and his forehead bore the infernal trade-mark of the triumvirate, which no longer existed. One of the members had been hanged; another had died from natural causes; but the survivor, Alfred Osip, of Rough Lane, Stepney, had accomplished alone the accursed work which the three had undertaken.

"I was sent away," explained the valet, with chattering teeth, "by master at eleven o'clock, as he would not let me sit up with him. I came into the room, as usual, about seven o'clock -- a few minutes ago, Miss -- to see if master wanted me. Then I saw that" -- he pointed to the bed -- "and this! " -- he picked up an assegai, which was lying near the escritoire. "Look at the blood on it, Miss, and look at the cruel wound in master's breast."