The officers paused themselves involuntarily to listen if any voice responded to Albert’s frantic call, but when all was still again, they urged him forward, saying,—“We can wait no longer—come to the magistrate’s.”
“Once more hear me,” cried Albert; “some of you must have hearts to feel for the unfortunate. Here, I swear to you that there are papers in yon room, where lies the ghastly remains of the murdered man, which it much imports Sir Francis Hartleton to have. Oh, search for them—search, I pray you—I will attempt no escape. You shall find me patient—most patient; but as you love justice, find those papers.”
The vehemence and earnestness of his tone was not without its effect even upon those rude men, and they looked in each other’s faces for a moment or two, irresolute, when something came down the staircase with a rustling sound, and the man who had been left above to keep guard on the door of the room, called to his companions below, saying—
“Ask the prisoner if that’s his cloak—it was lying half in and half out of the door way.”
One of the officers lifted the cloak, from the floor, and turning to Albert said—“Is this yours?”
“No,” replied Albert, “it must be his who lies above in death. It is not mine.”
“I more than suspect it is, though,” said the officer, as he held his light close to it, “why it is smeared with blood. We must take this with us, comrades. It’s a dainty piece of evidence against the prisoner. Come on—there hasn’t been such a famous murder as this since Mr. Vaughan was killed in the Strand.”
“But the papers. You forget the papers,” cried Albert.
“Hang the papers,” was the reply. “There are none. We cannot waste time with you.”
The unhappy young man resigned himself to his fate, and accompanied the officers in silence. Evil fortune seemed to be expending all her malice against him; a tide of circumstantial evidence was rushing over him more than sufficient to overwhelm him in the consequences of a crime of which he was innocent, Ada appeared lost to him for ever now that Gray was dead; for what clue had he to find her now; and the conduct of Learmont was mysterious, if he were not the actual murderer of Jacob Gray. A confused whirl of thoughts and conjectures passed through the brain of Albert with frightful rapidity. The strange and most unexpected events of the night were completely bewildering. At one moment he thought of accusing Learmont of the murder; at another he almost doubted if he was correct in fancying he had seen the squire at all—so strangely disjointed—so full of mystery—so redolent of horror had been the night’s proceedings, that the unfortunate Albert could scarcely be said to be in a sufficiently collected frame of mind to form a just conclusion, or hazard a practicable conjecture respecting them. His brain seemed to grow into fire with the agony he endured, and more like one dead than alive, he was passively led by the officers towards the residence of Sir Francis Hartleton, to be there accused of the awful crime of murder.