"STOP.
"Another has confessed the crime."
Whish—rush—whish—rush—-
The Guard has caught the flutt'ring sheet,
Now forward and northward! fierce and fleet,
Thro' the mist and the dark and the driving sleet,
As if life and death were in it;
'Tis a splendid race! a race against Time,—-
And a thousand to one we win it.
Look at those flitting ghosts—-