"They haven't hanged him yet, have they?" he gasped. "Oh, good Lord above! what have I done?"
Squire Brown stared, a spectacle of dense bewilderment.
"You didn't do the murder, I hope?" he asked.
The squire rode away, and Mr. Parmalee sat for a good hour, half stupefied over the account. The paper contained a resume of the trial, from first to last—dwelling particularly on Miss Silver's evidence, and ending with the sentence of the court.
The paper dropped from the artist's paralyzed hand. He covered his face and sat in a trance of horror and remorse. His mother came to call him to dinner, and as he looked up in answer to her call, she started back with a scream at sight of his unearthly face.
"Lor' a-massy, George Washington! what ever has come to you?"
"Pack up my clean socks and shirts, mother," he said. "I'm going back to England by the first steamer."
Late next evening Mr. Parmalee reached New York. Early the following morning he strode up to the brownstone mansion of Mr. Denover and sharply rang the bell.
"Is Lady—I mean, is Mr. Denover's niece to home?"
The servant ushered him into the drawing-room.