The noise had reached its height, and the champagne was going about, when the Squire interrupted with a “Hush, hush!” and the babel ceased. The clock on the mantelpiece was striking twelve. As the last stroke vibrated on the air, its echo alone breaking the silence, the Squire rose and lifted his hands—
“A Happy New Year to us all, my friends! May God send His best blessings with it!”
It may as well be added, in the interests of peace and quietness, that those Indians had not committed any crime at all; it had been invented by rumour, as Worcester discovered later. They were only inoffensive strangers, travelling about to see the land.
THE END.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.
“I care not how often murders and other mysteries form the foundation of plots, if they give us such novels as these.”—Harriet Martineau.
“Mrs. Henry Wood has an art of novel-writing which no rival possesses in the same degree.”—Spectator.