strange and mournful expression, and Mr.
Murray gazed at him.

"Well?"

The stranger glanced at the servant.

"Leave the room, Robert."

Robert did so, but remained in close proximity
outside.

"This is a strange hour at which to disturb
me. Have you something to say?"

"It is a strange hour, sir, for coming; but
my reason for coming is stranger."

The man turned to the window, the curtains of
which were not drawn, and gazed at the full
October moon, which lighted up the quaint old
church hard by, the humble gravestones, the quiet
home scene, and shed a solemn glory over all.

"Well?" Mr. Murray asked once more.

But the man's eyes were fixed on the sky.

"Yes," he said, shuddering, "it shone like
that—like that—the night of the—murder. It
did indeed. It shone on his face—Gibbs's—as
he lay there—it shone on his open eyes—I
couldn't get them to shut; do what I would,
they would stare at me. I've never seen moonlight
like that since, till to-night. And I'm come
to give myself up to you. I always felt I should,
and it's better done and over. Better over."

"You murdered Gibbs? You?"

"I did. I've been there to-night, to look at
the place. I felt I must see it again; and I saw his
eyes, as plain as I see you, open, with the moonlight
shining on them. Ah, a horrible sight!"

"You look very wild and ill. Perhaps——"

"You doubt me. I wish I could doubt. See
here."

With a trembling emaciated hand he drew
from his pocket the watch, seal ring, and purse
that had belonged to Gibbs; and laid them on
the table. Mr. Murray knew them.

"I used the money," said the man, faintly.
"There were but a few shillings, and I was in
great want."

Then he sank down on a chair with a dreadful
groan.

Mr. Murray gave him a restorative, and after
a time he rallied. With his hollow eyes still
gazing at the moonlight, and with that ever-recurring
shudder, he faltered out at intervals the
following story.

He and Gibbs had been formerly associated
in disreputable money transactions, which had
ended in his own ruin. Being in abject
distress, he had, on the promise of a considerable
bribe, agreed to aid Gibbs in a plot to obtain
possession of Susan's person. When she and
George had separated for the fortnight previous
to their contemplated marriage, the two
confederates had followed her to Ormiston, and,
concealing themselves in a low part of the town,
had kept close watch upon her movements.
Ascertaining that she was to spend the day
with a cousin, they sent a woman, a creature of
their own, to waylay her on her road, with a
message purporting to come from George Eade,
imploring her to hasten to him immediately, as
he was injured by an accident on the railroad,
and might have but a few hours to live.
Appalled by such intelligence, the poor girl
hurried to the place where the woman led her,
entered without a shadow of suspicion a lonely
house in the suburbs, and found herself in the
presence of Gibbs and Williams, who, instantly
securing the door, informed her that this
subterfuge had been resorted to in order to get her
into the power of the former. They told her
that she was now in a place where screams would
not be heeded, even if heard, and whence she
would find it impossible to escape, and that she
would not be quitted night or day by them or
their female assistant, until she should consent
to become the wife of Gibbs. Who added, with
furious oaths, that had her union with George
Eade taken place, he would have shot him down
on his way from church.

Wild with terror and astonishment, helpless,
bewildered, the girl resisted longer than might
have been expected in one naturally weak. But
finding herself incessantly watched, trembling,
too, for her life (for Gibbs stood over her with
a loaded pistol and the most furious threats),
she was frightened at last into writing, at
his dictation, the letters to her aunt and lover,
announcing her marriage; though that event did
not really take place till nearly three weeks
later, when, worn out, and almost stupified into
acquiescence, she was married in due form.
Even then, Williams declared that she would
have resisted still, but for her fears for her lover's
safety. His life seemed to be dearer to her than
her own happiness, and Gibbs had sworn so
vehemently that his life should be the immediate
forfeit of his union with her, that she felt that union
would be impossible. She married, therefore,
offering herself up as a kind of ransom for the man
she loved. Then Williams claimed his reward.

But his worthless confederate was not one to
fulfil honestly any promise involving the sacrifice
of money. He paid the first of three
instalments agreed upon; but constantly shirked
the payment of the others, until at last,
Williams finding himself in immediate danger of
arrest, made his way down to the neighbourhood
of Cumner, and lurking about the Southanger
Woods, the deep recesses of which were
well calculated for concealment, watched his
opportunity, and accosted Gibbs one evening as
he was driving home from Tenelms alone. That
worthy, though, as usual, half drunk, recognised
him at once, and swearing at him for an impudent
beggar, did his best to drive his horse over
him. Infuriated by such treatment, Williams
wrote him a letter, declaring that if he failed to
bring, on a certain night to a certain spot in
Southanger Woods, every shilling of the sum
he had promised to pay, he (Williams) would
the very next morning go before the nearest
magistrate and reveal the whole plot of Susan's
abduction and marriage.

Alarmed by this threat, Gibbs answered the
appointment, but without bringing the money;
indeed, it soon became clear that he had no more
intention of paying it than before. Williams,
exasperated beyond endurance by these
repeated disappointments, and rendered desperate
by want, swore he would at least possess himself
of whatever money or valuables the other had