“It is the faithful servant of the man you murdered—the man who patronised and protected you—it is Henry Wincott.”
“Oh! no—no, it cannot be,” she cried.
“Yes,” said the old ferryman, “I am Henry Wincott—the faithful servant of the gentleman whom years and years ago you robbed and murdered.”
She uttered two or three wild cries, which produced a strange and melancholy effect as they died away on the night wind; then she swooned.
There was a consultation. The three accusers debated for some time.
They had intended taking summary vengeance on the woman who had so deeply wronged them, but a better feeling at length prevailed, and Laura Stanbridge, when she had in a measure recovered from the deep trance into which she had fallen, was taken, bound as she was, to the home of Mr. Kensett, the magistrate, where she was charged with the murder of her paramour, and attempted murder of Alf Purvis.
A long examination took place, and Laura was taken to the lock-up in the neighbourhood.
She was placed in one of the upper rooms of this station, and left alone for the remainder of the night.
Her remorse and miserable thoughts would be difficult to describe. She became duly impressed with the hopelessness of her condition, and during the dark hours of the lonely night but one burning thought possessed her.
This was to effect her escape.