The horse detached himself from the wagon and ran home—they were within half a mile of the village now—leaving his driver without sense or motion beside the wrecked wagon.
He had lain there not over twenty minutes, when a pedestrian appeared upon the scene.
It was Aaron Wolverton, who was on his way to the house of a tenant to collect rent. He had been walking with his eyes fixed upon the ground, thinking intently, when all at once, raising his eyes, he started in amazement at the sight of the wrecked carriage and the prostrate man.
"Who can it be?" he asked himself in excitement.
His eyes were failing, and he could not distinguish, till close at hand, the person of the stricken man.
"Robert Burton!" he exclaimed in excitement, when at last he had discovered who it was. "How on earth did this accident happen?"
He bent over the prostrate man and placed his hand upon his heart. Alas! it had already ceased to beat. The features wore a startled and troubled look, the reflection of the feelings excited by the collision.
"Well, well!" ejaculated Wolverton, awed in spite of himself by the sight, "who would have dreamed of this? and only this morning he called on me to pay his interest."
There was a sudden suggestion, begotten of his greed, that entered that instant into Wolverton's mind.
"He can't have gone home since," he bethought himself. "He must have the receipt with him."