He was looking down into a small room, poorly furnished.
On the bed, in an attitude of abandon, sat the boy, Jamie. His face was hidden in his hands, but his whole figure shook and quivered as he murmured, loud enough for Leicester to hear:
"This is the night he died! The very night! What makes me think of him so? It must be 'cause he was good to me—and he was good to me! He was like no one else! And now he's dead—shamefully murdered and slandered. Oh, Mr. Leicester, Mr. Leicester, if you could only come to life again and prove your innocence! It is false! You did not murder him—you couldn't; and yet——"
Then he stopped suddenly, shuddered, and looked round the room fearfully.
Then he drew himself painfully from the bed and to a box lying in the corner of the room, opened it, and, with another shudder, took something from it.
This something he held in his hand and stared at with an evident horror of fascination.
In his anxiety to see what the article was, Leicester nearly lost his balance, and made a slight noise.
The lad started, and the something dropped with a clash to the floor, revealing itself to be a large clasp-knife.
Leicester could scarcely believe his eyes.