The Arrest.
The sound of his own voice seemed now to conquer all the nervous
feelings which had oppressed him, and Albert Seyton continued shouting
for aid, until lights flashed up the narrow staircase, and several
voices cried,—
“Hilloa there, what’s the matter?”
“Murder!” cried Albert. “Quick, here. There has been murder done—this
way—quick, whoever you are.”
Several men now made their appearance on the stairs, and in a few
moments the landing was crowded with a party bearing lights, some of
whom were likewise armed.
“This way,” said Albert, pointing to the door of Gray’s room; “a man
has been barbarously murdered—his corpse lies there.”
“Oh! It’s you, my spark, is it?” cried a man stepping up to Albert, who
at a glance he recognised as the spy, upon Jacob Gray, who had caused
him so much uneasiness.
“For God’s sake,” cried Albert, “forget all but the necessity of
securing the perpetrators of the horrible crime which has been
committed in this house to-night. A man, I tell you, has been murdered.”
“Very like,” said the spy, as he took a constable’s staff from his
pocket. “You are my prisoner, my light-heeled gentleman. Till we catch
somebody else more suspicious, we may as well have you.”
Another officer who had gone into Gray’s room now came with a face as
pale as a sheet, and trembling in every limb.
“It’s true,” he cried, “I never saw such a sight in my life, and hope
never to see such an one again.”
“Do with me what you like,” cried Albert, “but take, for Heaven’s sake,
some measures for securing the murderer.”
“It’s my opinion, young fellow,” said the spy, “that you know about as
much of this affair as most people—keep a strict eye on him, my men.
Why, you look as scared as if you had seen a ghost. Give me your light.
If there is a dead man there, I’m not afraid of him.”
All but one constable, who kept a firm hold of Albert, went into the
room, but hardened as these men were to scenes of terror, a cry of
unmingled horror escaped them as they saw the ghastly spectacle under
the window, and they quickly retreated to the landing again.
“You see I have spoken the truth,” cried Albert; “God only knows
whether those I suspect are guilty or not, but to any magistrate I will
communicate all I know with regard to this night’s dreadful
proceedings.”
“You are, out of all hand, the most hardened ruffian I ever came near,”
said the constable who held Albert; “why you’ll be hung for this as
sure as you are now a living man.”
“I?” cried Albert, the dreadful circumstances of suspicion in which he
was placed for the first time darting across his mind, for in the
excitement of his feelings he had scarcely noticed what was said
before. “I? Why you rave, man—I did not do the deed.”
“The less you say the better,” remarked the spy; “comrades, this will
be no bad night’s work for us—I can give evidence that this young
fellow has been dogging the man who is murdered for some days past.
Here we find him actually in the very room, or on the very threshold of
it. It was a lucky job we happened to see the door wide open, and came
in.”
“A clear case,” said another.
“There’s been many a man hung on half the evidence,” remarked a third.
Albert looked from one to the other for a few moments, perfectly
bewildered at this new turn things had taken; then he said,—
“You do not—you cannot suspect me. Good God, ’twas I who called you
here. I burst the door open below but a short time since.”
“Hear him—hear him,” cried the spy; “he will own to it all in a minute.”
“Unhand me,” cried Albert; “I am as innocent of this awful crime as you
yourselves—I—”
He struggled to free himself from the grasp of the officer, but a
couple more of them immediately closed with him, and in a few moments
he found himself handcuffed and a prisoner.
“One of you stay,” cried the spy, “and don’t let any one come near the
body. By Heaven, this is as ugly a job as ever I heard of!”
Albert clasped his manacled hands together, and a feeling of despair
came over his heart—a prison—a scaffold, and an ignominious death
seemed to be staring him in the face. How was he to extricate himself
from the fearful circumstances by which he was now surrounded? Where
now were all his fond hopes of once more seeing his Ada? The rush of
wretched feelings across his mind was almost too great for mortal
endurance, and had it not been for the stern, unpitying men by whom he
was now surrounded, he could have shed tears in the bitterness of his
despair.
“Take me where you like,” he cried. “Do with me what you like—accuse me
of what you please—but, as you are men and Christians, search this
house, I implore you, for a young maiden, whose name is Ada. She must
be here somewhere. I entreat you to search for her—I implore you.
Moreover, there are papers in the room, most probably, of yon murdered
man, which are directed to Sir Francis Hartleton. Find them, and take
them to him. Then do with me what you please, and in my heart I believe
the kindest hand would be that which took my life.”
The accent in which these words were uttered was so despairing—so full
of exquisite grief and abandonment of all hope, that even the officers,
blunted as their feelings were, looked affected by what they heard.
There was a moment’s silence and then one said,—
“Bring him along at once before Sir Francis. He never minds being
knocked up on real business.”
“But you will do what I ask you,” said Albert; “you will search for her
I have mentioned to you?”
“We cannot,” was the reply; “we must lose no time—come on—come on.”
With a deep sigh Albert dropped his head upon his breast, and suffered
himself to be led down the staircase in a state of great dejection.
When he reached the foot of the topmost flight, he summoned all his
energies, and once more cried,—
“Ada, Ada!”
Echo only answered him.
The officers paused themselves involuntarily to listen if any voice
responded to Albert’s frantic call, but when all was still again, they
urged him forward, saying,—“We can wait no longer—come to the
magistrate’s.”
“Once more hear me,” cried Albert; “some of you must have hearts to
feel for the unfortunate. Here, I swear to you that there are papers in
yon room, where lies the ghastly remains of the murdered man, which it
much imports Sir Francis Hartleton to have. Oh, search for them—search,
I pray you—I will attempt no escape. You shall find me patient—most
patient; but as you love justice, find those papers.”
The vehemence and earnestness of his tone was not without its effect
even upon those rude men, and they looked in each other’s faces for a
moment or two, irresolute, when something came down the staircase with
a rustling sound, and the man who had been left above to keep guard on
the door of the room, called to his companions below, saying—
“Ask the prisoner if that’s his cloak—it was lying half in and half out
of the door way.”
One of the officers lifted the cloak, from the floor, and turning to
Albert said—“Is this yours?”
“No,” replied Albert, “it must be his who lies above in death. It is
not mine.”
“I more than suspect it is, though,” said the officer, as he held his
light close to it, “why it is smeared with blood. We must take this
with us, comrades. It’s a dainty piece of evidence against the
prisoner. Come on—there hasn’t been such a famous murder as this since
Mr. Vaughan was killed in the Strand.”
“But the papers. You forget the papers,” cried Albert.
“Hang the papers,” was the reply. “There are none. We cannot waste time
with you.”
The unhappy young man resigned himself to his fate, and accompanied the
officers in silence. Evil fortune seemed to be expending all her malice
against him; a tide of circumstantial evidence was rushing over him
more than sufficient to overwhelm him in the consequences of a crime of
which he was innocent, Ada appeared lost to him for ever now that Gray
was dead; for what clue had he to find her now; and the conduct of
Learmont was mysterious, if he were not the actual murderer of Jacob
Gray. A confused whirl of thoughts and conjectures passed through the
brain of Albert with frightful rapidity. The strange and most
unexpected events of the night were completely bewildering. At one
moment he thought of accusing Learmont of the murder; at another he
almost doubted if he was correct in fancying he had seen the squire at
all—so strangely disjointed—so full of mystery—so redolent of horror
had been the night’s proceedings, that the unfortunate Albert could
scarcely be said to be in a sufficiently collected frame of mind to
form a just conclusion, or hazard a practicable conjecture respecting
them. His brain seemed to grow into fire with the agony he endured, and
more like one dead than alive, he was passively led by the officers
towards the residence of Sir Francis Hartleton, to be there accused of
the awful crime of murder.
As the party neared the house of the magistrate, a feeling of utter
despair crept over Albert’s heart, and he was conscious but of one
thought; that was, that he would be glad when he was dead, for then all
his miseries would be over, and he should perhaps in some happier
state, see Ada, who, with an awful shudder, he thought must have been
murdered long since by Jacob Gray.