“How are you to-day?” asked Ernest kindly.
“I’ve been in torment,” he replied. “I want brandy, and it seems I’ll die, if I can’t get it. Give me some.”
“Comston,” said Ernest gently, but firmly, “now is your time to break off your evil habit. If you do not, you are ruined.”
“I’m already ruined,” groaned the wretched victim. “But I never thought that I would be accused of murder. God in heaven knows that I never killed poor Jones. I’m as innocent of that as you are. Blicker told an infamous lie. I believe he did it himself, and is using me as a scape-goat.”
“But circumstances,” remarked Ernest, “seem to be against you at present. However, I have not come to talk about that. I want to save your soul.”
“Why,” cried Comston, in visible alarm, “you can’t believe I’ll be put to death, do you? It would be an everlasting disgrace to—to—hang an innocent man.”
“But you will have to die sometime, Comston—sooner or later, and I do not want your soul lost. I have come to pray with you, and for you. Will you join me?”
“O, yes, if you think it will do any good.”
Ernest read suitable portions of Scripture, and prayed for the unhappy man, whose feelings were at last deeply moved.
Comston, the next day, stood his trial in the Magistrate’s court, and without entering into the details, which would be of no special interest to the reader, it is sufficient to state that he was bound over to the Circuit Court, which would convene at the expiration of five months. As this was no bailable case, Comston had to be confined in jail.