"Let me know where they are, and your task is finished," he said to the detectives employed to trace them; and at the end of two days—an eternity to him—he got the address, a farmhouse, in the neighbourhood of Brighton. "That is enough," remarked Fraser; "I will now make sure that the scoundrel will not corrupt another man's wife." It was this remark that told so much against him at his trial.
In the darkening light of an October afternoon the quondam friends met face to face on the cliffs, and the deadly struggle began. It did not last long. Fraser, being the stronger of the two, soon had the advantage, and he hurled the destroyer of his happiness into the sea. The deed accomplished, the betrayed husband did not attempt to fly. He gave himself up to the first policeman he met; and all that he said to the inspector was, that, as the law did not meet his case, he had been obliged to be his own judge and executioner.
Not the slightest trace of Sydney Marshall, dead or alive, had been discovered.
The official report to the Home Secretary was based on these details, which I have curtailed as much as possible.
Whether they came at a wrong time or not, the petitions in favour of a commutation of the sentence were unsuccessful.
The execution took place within the precincts of Lewes Gaol, and, as the case interested me, and I had business at Brighton, I was present. It was quite true, Fraser owned that he had sought the man's life, and as he had broken the law he must pay the penalty. He proposed to meet his ignominious end with quiet firmness. An incident occurred at the last moment to destroy his fortitude, and which rivetted my attention. It was immediately before Marwood pulled the cap over the condemned man's face. Fraser was taking his last look on earth when his eyes met those of one of the reporters. Suddenly, as a flash of lightning, his face underwent the most extraordinary change; before it wore a resigned expression—now it had all the malignity of a fiend.
The governor and everyone could see that the man was terribly agitated; his body swayed violently, and he attempted to speak, but, as fortune would have it, the clock was sounding the last beat of eight, and the hangman made haste to finish his horrible work.
When all was over the reporter who had so greatly disturbed Fraser's dying moments sneaked quickly out of the prison, but I did not mean to lose sight of him. An explanation was necessary. Detectives see so many phases of crime that they are not usually astonished at anything, but I must own to being dumbfounded when I discovered, under all his disguise, that reporter to be Sydney Marshall.
A good swimmer, and terrified for his life, he had, when pitched into the water, struck out to sea in the hope that he might fall in with a passing vessel, and he was evidently picked up by a French fishing-boat and landed at Portail.