burnt out in the socket. There was blood
on the floor; the name of Mr. Robert Earlby
on a visiting-card, marked with a blood-stain
in the corner; a piece of money was found
afterwards, embedded in the tallow that had
guttered down over the candlestick; and
John Pearmaine, who could have explained
all this, lay on his mattress with the sound
half of his wits astray.

Furthermore, on the same morning, a
body, pierced through the breast, was brought
to the Charles in the Oak— the nearest inn—
and identified by the people there as that of
a man, Thomas Halston, who had come into
those parts two months before. A discharged
gun was found in the lodge near him, and there
were obvious signs of a struggle in
the muddy road. An inquest was held in
the inn parlour, at which everything was
told and shown that could be told and  
shown. The card was declared by a juryman
named Philips to be that of a gentleman
of good character and most amiable disposition,
living near London on a freehold farm
that yielded him a comfortable income. "He
had been at his house," said this juryman, "on
the preceding night, and had left at about a
quarter before ten, in the best of tempers, to
walk to the train that passes at ten thirty."

"How long had Mr. Philips known this
gentleman?"

"Only six months; but he had, before that
time, made the acquaintance of his eldest
daughter, Mary, when she was in town last
Spring upon a visit. As her accepted suitor,
he had been lately a frequent visitor at his
house, and in his character he had reason
to place the utmost confidence. He would
not fail to write to him at once upon this
business."

"Is your friend bachelor or widower?"

"A bachelor."

The jury went to John Pearmaine as he
lay tossing in his cupboard; but no kind of
information could be had from him. His
mind rambled over a great number of wild
subjects; but he said not a syllable, insane
or sane, of anything that could be supposed to
have happened on the previous night.

While they were thus engaged, news came
that Mr. Earlby had descended from the
omnibus at the inn door, and was in the
parlour waiting for the jury. He was pale
and faint, he said, from loss of blood. Pressing
business, as well as the desire to submit
his wound at once to the attention of his own
surgeon, had caused him to persevere in his
purpose of returning home on the night in
question; but he was so anxious to avoid
every appearance of a desire for secrecy or
mystery upon the subject of the unfortunate
affair, that he had come back, weak as he
was, without even a day's delay. He had
been the more anxious to do this, because he
had doubt whether the message left by him at
the Charles in the Oak would be delivered
by the person whom he saw there. He
explained satisfactorily all that had been seen
that morning in the Inn: the blood was his
own, set flowing by a shot which only grazed
the ribs, though it had been aimed at his
heart by the man whose body he had on his
arrival gone up-stairs to see. The person
was a perfect stranger. He must have been
a man well known to the police: for so
desperate an assault as that which had, in the
case, led to the death of the assailant, must
have been committed by a footpad of no
ordinary sort. After firing at him from the
hedge, the fellow had leapt down into the
road upon him, and would, as the deponent
firmly believed, have killed him, had he not
been provided with the sword-stick, which he
used in self-defence.

Every circumstance helped to support the
statement of the witness; who after the
return of a verdict of Justifiable Homicide, was
complimented by the coroner for the high-
minded way in which he had come forward,
despite all risk to himself, and for the valour
which he had shown in the defence of his life
against a desperate assassin.

Mr. Earlby went to the house of the
Philipses, and was sought after as a lion by
the townspeople. He made light of his
wound; which was soon healed. The ball, he
said, had rebounded from a rib; his surgeon
had found nothing to extract. He was confined
indeed to bed for a few days at Philips's
house with sharp pain on the wounded side;
but this was for a few days only, and then
all went well again.

Halston was duly buried in unconsecrated
ground; and, in a place where nobody had
known him, there was nobody to take his
shame to heart; except, perhaps, our ostler.
This worthy, who cut out a large cross on a
piece of an old manger, scrawled under it,
with irregular incisions, "Thomas Halston,
His Mark," and set it up by the neglected
grave. His only assigned reason was that he
must pity a man who had no luck in shooting
vermin. To the cook alone the ostler
would confide all that he thought about the
matter; but she, too, was mysterious, and
all that she could say was, that she must pity
poor Miss Philips. Other misgivings were
soon set at rest; and, for a time, I fear, the
hostess was to be caught now and then
regretting the new linen of her own that she
had given to "the burglar's sister" for her
grave-clothes.

The poor night-porter said nothing, and
knew little more upon this subject. His illness
continued till the Spring, and I must say
of our hostess that, if ever she regretted kindness
after it was spent, she never grudged it in
the hour of need. The Charles in the Oak
promoted John to a commodious bedroom on
the upper-floor, and, by good nursing, helped
him to regain his former health with a fair
portion of his former wit. Nobody spoke of
the affair which had produced the painful
effect upon his mind.