I took as long going downstairs as I did going up, and at last made my way out of the house, closing the kitchen door softly behind me. Putting my shoes on, I hastened away to plant the money. In the neighborhood was a big vacant lot, its boundaries marked by a row of broken and leaning fence posts from which the boards had been taken for firewood or other uses. Pulling one of the loose posts from its place, I threw the pouch in the hole and jammed the post down on top of it. The gun and instruments I threw into a small stream nearby. I wanted to be entirely clean of anything incriminating in case I was suspected, arrested, and searched.

In the security of my room I went over the night’s work. After an hour’s thought I could think of but one more thing I ought to do. My socks might have picked up dirt or dust around the house. A particle of dust, a piece of thread or lint or raveling of cloth might convict me if suspicion fell on me. Taking the socks off my feet, I went out and threw them in a lot.