We’ve missed all the fun!”
What was to be done? The man was dead!
Nought could be done—nought could be said;
So—my Lord Tomnoddy went home to bed!
Referring back to the days before the advent of the daily illustrated papers with their portraits of all kinds of people, a very affecting story was once told by a well-known author.
It related to a very pretty and plaintive young woman who visited the Chamber of Horrors early on the morning that a certain criminal with many aliases was executed.
She was accompanied by her father, who, with his arm about her waist to steady her faltering steps, led her up to where the figure of the murderer stood. The poor woman remained gazing at it as though fascinated; then, with a nod, she burst out crying and buried her head in her hands.
Her father gently drew her out of the place, and as he did so whispered in her ear, “Free, my child; free at last!”
How the author came to hear of the incident we do not know, or was it one of those coincidences that somehow do occur?