CHAPTER V

_The Waiter States His Second Case_

"Surely!" cried the judge; and his tone rang high, charged with indignant protest.

In the one word was a whole speech of dissent, a compressed synopsis of his surprise and sense of injustice.

He drew back his hand inch by inch, while the waiter's finger remained poised. There was something Solomonic in that uplifted finger, something, too, of satanophany in its rigidity that had a chilling effect on the judge's outcry.

"Who are you?" he demanded, forcing a certain authority into his voice that he was far from feeling.

"All things in their places," responded the waiter. Then he dropped his finger. His expression, which had been commandingly pregnant, changed to one of engaging frankness.

"Your lordship's eagerness to justify the black cap," he said, "reminds me of an incident that occurred during a race meeting at Aintree some time ago. You must be aware that at one time the royal racing colors included a black cap, and on this occasion the valet of a royal amateur steeplechaser had, in the hurry of packing the kit, omitted to include the cap. Just when the race was about to begin the loss was discovered. Where was a black cap to be found? In the midst of the anxiety a humble spectator observed that very famous Judge Hawkins, who was as eager to see a horse race as he was willing to sentence men to death. 'Ask old 'Awkins,' shouted the spectator. 'He's bound to have a black cap in his pocket!'"

In spite of himself a gray smile twisted the judge's features at the waiter's story; but he pulled himself together and frowned.

"Am I to understand that you deny the justice of the death sentence of Abe Lammie? Stop fooling and let us keep to a clear issue. Lammie accepted his fate."

"By all means. I merely told the story as a balance to the one you recited a short time ago. Do you seriously put forward the fact of a man accepting his fate as an argument in favor of capital punishment? That is no argument at all. You have mentioned an ancient custom of a Chinese ruler. Let me mention a custom that still prevails in that country. Commanders of British warships raiding the lairs of Chinese pirates have often found that if they demand prisoners to be handed over, the headman of a village is willing to hand over a number of innocent people for execution in place of the guilty parties, who may have fled to the interior. The guiltless persons themselves do not object to being beheaded. They act as substitutes for the guilty because of the old Chinese custom whereby a condemned man may give a substitute's family compensation for his act. Doubtless your penal code would condemn this custom, but a Chinaman who believed in it would see no cause for complaint."

"I am not concerned with Chinese beliefs," said the judge. "Do you decline to admit that Abe Lammie's death on the scaffold was justice?"

"Before I answer that I must ask your indulgence to relate my second case," replied the waiter. "It may have a bearing on the case of Abe Lammie. We shall come to a definite conclusion regarding both cases when I have finished. The bases of both are rooted in the same soil. But by a peculiar chance the reference to pirates has some relation to the case I am about to present. This murder occurred at Wapping."

"What on earth has that to do with pirates in China?"

"Nothing whatever, but it is reminiscent of pirates in England. You cannot have forgotten that Execution Dock was situated at Wapping."

The waiter waited for the judge to make some sort of admission, but beyond a slight nod of his head the judge did not answer. He seemed, in fact, to be somewhat befogged at the reference to Wapping, and settled himself to listen as the waiter cleared his throat and turned over the leaves of the minute-book.

"I have no other reason for referring to Execution Dock," continued the waiter as he leaned back in his chair and regarded the judge closely to make sure that he was paying attention, "than to point out how many men ended their lives quite unprotestingly there. I make a point of this to offset the idea in your mind that the judgment of death is always opposed by the victims. Such is not the case. The pirates who were condemned at the Old Bailey, as a matter of fact, as often as not declined to put up a very strong defense. Having been condemned, they were placed in chains in a cart and transported through the streets of Wapping at a very slow pace. The populace usually pelted them with mud and refuse. Before the cart containing these unfortunate men the Marshal of the Admiralty drove, equally slowly, in his gorgeous carriage. His officials carried the badge of his office, a silver oar. That silver oar can still be seen in the Law Courts of London.

"In this way the dismal cavalcade proceeded to Execution Dock. A gallows was erected in the river at low-water mark, and there the wretched prisoners were hanged and gibbeted. Three tides washed over their bodies before they were cut down and taken away for further disgrace. The bodies were tarred, placed in an iron cage, and hung in chains so that all could see. The famous Captain Kidd was treated in this fashion.

"It was within a stone's throw of the site of Execution Dock that Jeff S. Connolly killed a woman and began his flight from the law. A great many of you anti-abolitionists hold that if a criminal had the fear of death in front of him he would not kill. That is a foolish supposition, and because I know it is a foolish supposition, and because you, my lord, sentenced Jeff S. Connolly to death, I desire to present him to you in an original light, as it is the true light. In a word, he was

THE MAN WHO WISHED TO BE HANGED

The murder he had committed had no relieving features. It was sordid, passionate, terrible. He killed a woman because she had ceased to love him and had proved unfaithful. One is not sure whether he intended to kill her. Certainly the first thought that crossed his mind, when he saw her lying dead at his feet, was that it was one of the easiest things in the world to kill a human being.

Connolly was an American who had lived most of his life in England. He was usually a quiet, inoffensive man; but something of the primitive was in his nature. He killed this woman in a wild, Berserk rage of fury. Perhaps the necessity to stifle her cries when he first attacked her had something to do with the frightful end. And when she lay there, battered to death, he stood up and breathed deeply, conscious that he must now get away.

The few trinkets she wore were not of great value, but he took them. He stepped over to the window and looked out.

No one was about. The narrow street was dark; her cries had not aroused the neighbors. He slipped out of the doorway, closing it behind him, and walked smartly away.

His brain was in a whirl, the struggle had thrown him into a strange state of unreality. The world had somersaulted in these few minutes. He boarded an omnibus and went to his lodgings, with the object of going to bed and resuming his ordinary routine; but when he let himself into his room he found it impossible to do so. He was driven by a demon of unrest. He sat down and tried to think out the best way of escape.

One fact was patent. There was no doubt the woman would be found. There was equally no doubt the police would trail the city for her murderer. They might find a clue, a fingerprint, something that would lead them to him. He looked at his coat; a button had been torn off. And there was another thing--he had come away without his hat. He could not now recollect where he had laid his hat when he had called on her. He must have come all the way from that house without the hat. The omnibus conductor must have noted him. Pedestrians would have seen him. He had hundreds of witnesses against him. The police would have no lack of witnesses, and every finger would point toward him. The thought sent a shiver through him. He must get away.

His first act was to change his clothes. He put on an old suit, took an old cap, and went out. More than two hours had now passed since he had left the house where the woman lay dead. The omnibuses were making their final runs for the night. He stepped on to one and took a ticket to the terminus. Somewhere beyond the city he would find a place to hide.

He climbed to the top of the bus, though there was a flurry of rain in the air. He took care to muffle up his face in his coat as much as possible, and huddled in the back seat, wondering, vaguely, what plan he might adopt. He had a little money. Ought he to take a train to a port and try to stow away on board an outgoing vessel? No, that was impossible. The police would track him that way easier than any other. The skipper of the ship would communicate with land; in any case, even if he managed to work his passage, he only narrowed his chances of hiding by going to sea. One cannot run away from a ship.

On the other hand, since he must stay on land, he knew it was but a matter of hours before every policeman in the country would have his description and would be looking out for him. These things were done by telegraph. There was also the telephone. On land and on sea he did not seem to have a chance. But on the other hand he could hide so long as he was free. That thought comforted him a little.

When the bus reached the terminus he dismounted and walked along the country road beyond the bus sheds as if he knew his way; but this seeming knowledge of his whereabouts was merely as a blind in case the busmen had seen and noted him. He hadn't the least idea where he was going. All that was in his mind was that the police would soon be on his trail and that he was safest away from his usual haunts. In the wide country he would work out a way of escape.

He put his hand into his overcoat pocket and found that he still had the blood-stained handkerchief with which he had wiped his hands after the deed. He wanted to get rid of it, but could not think of how to do it. The rain had filled the ditches along the road. He filled the handkerchief with stones and dropped it to the bottom of the ditch. He did not want to be found with that handkerchief on him. Then he sat down on the sloping bank. The rain had ceased. He leaned against the hedge, trying to sleep.

But the darkness terrified him. He had never known what it was to spend a night in the open alone, with only the silence of the countryside around him. He could not sleep. He was chilled and his bones ached. But he did not move. No one came near him. A stillness as of death filled the air. The atmosphere was singing with that peculiar hum that makes quietness intense and lonely. The night dragged.

Perhaps he dozed a little. He never knew, but he closed his eyes often enough and opened them at intervals. Once, when he opened them, he saw that it was dawn. He was shivering. Birds were twittering in the trees, insects were flitting about the grass and the roots of the hedge, the cattle in the meadows were lowing. Nature was expanding, like one of her flowers, to another day's life. Only the man who crouched at the base of the hedge feared the coming of the light.

In the distance he saw the red tower of a church, and, besides the church, the blue-gray smoke of the cottage fires issuing from the chimneys. He heard the crunch of a country cart coming along the road. He arose and began to walk in the direction of the village.

At the fringe of the village there was a signboard which gave its name. One arm of the board pointed down a forked road, indicating that he was over a dozen miles from the city. The other arm gave direction to a town he had never visited. He dared not go back to the city. If he went to the town, he would run into danger that way, too. He decided to wait in the vicinity of the village. Hunger was beginning to gnaw at him.

He loitered among the meadows for an hour or two and saw the village awakening to its work. Men and women came out to the fields. The church clock struck hours at what seemed terribly long intervals. The crowing of cocks and the barking of dogs came to his ears. Necessity forced him to make a bold move. He walked into the village and entered the first inn he reached.

The moment he caught sight of himself in the large mirror above the bar he realized that he presented a wild appearance; disheveled, dirty, a contrast to the trim proprietor who was polishing glasses.

The fugitive strode over to a corner table and sat down. A newspaper lay on the table, and at another in the opposite corner several countrymen sat talking and drinking beer.

"What can I get you, sir?"

The landlord was standing before him, pleasant and clean in his white apron.

"Some bread and cheese and beer."

In a few moments these were placed on his table, and as he paid for them he heard the conversation of the men in the other corner.

"What I say," said one, dogmatically, "is this: There isn't a chance for him. I'd rather be the one that was murdered than the murderer."

The fugitive drew back into the shadow, his bread halfway to his mouth. He gripped tightly at the edge of the table.

"Why do you say that, George?" asked another. "If you was murdered you'd be dead. You ain't much use to yourself or anybody if you're dead."

A third man laughed. "While there's life there's always a hope," he said, and sipped at his tankard.

"That may be true," replied the man called George, "but I'd rather be dead, killed and done with, than running like a hare before the law. I've bin thinkin' about it since I seen the newspaper. I seen a bit in my time. I'd rather be the one than t'other. Fancy runnin' wild with a reward out for you!"

The man in the corner lowered his head so that they might not see his face. He was trembling, though whether from weakness or from fear he did not know.

"The best reward for a man like that," said the second voice, "is a rope round his neck and a six-foot drop. We don't want murderers in this country. Kill 'em off, I say. This one went to see the woman and killed her because she'd got another man. It was a brutal crime. The paper says so."

"It was a crime of jealousy," said the man called George.

"Huh!"

"He had been in love with the woman. Some say they were as good as married. He come back to find another in his place. He'd been away for some years. There was a story I read once, called 'Enoch Arden.' Well, I was thinkin' about it. What would you do if you came back and found your wife had thrown you over for somebody else--any of you?"

There was a silence. The man called George continued.

"Jealousy! Ain't that a kind of madness? Ain't love a kind of madness?"

"No reason for murder, George!"

"Oh, I don't know. Just think--if it came to you. I'm not sayin' he was justified. I'm not savin' anything except this--if you ain't jealous you ain't in love. Anyway, it's done. I'll bet he's sorry by this time."

"Come, George, you can't tell us that a brute like that has any conscience. Murderers haven't any feelings of that kind. Hang 'em, say I. If we don't hang 'em we'll have people committin' murder wholesale."

"I never heard of anybody, except maybe a raving lunatic like Jack the Ripper, who wanted to commit more'n one murder," replied George. "I've seen things, I tell you. And them like Jack the Ripper ain't responsible. Besides, I'm not talking about conscience. I'm thinkin' about him bein' hunted up hill and down dale. There ain't much chance for him."

"That's true," said one with satisfaction.

"He can't get away," went on George; "at least, not far. They've got his description, and it was only last night the murder was done. How'd you like, Tom, to be on the run, knowin' you were wanted everywhere? It would be a terrible feeling."

"I wouldn't commit murder," retorted Tom, doggedly. "He brought it on himself."

"I know. I know. I'm not taking his side. I think he should be caught. But it seems to me that he is at a horrible disadvantage. Think of what must be going on inside his brain just now. He's bound to know he'll be caught."

"That's true!"

The voice had come, forced as it were, from the fugitive. He was bending over his table, his fingers crumbling his bread nervously. George turned in the man's direction and nodded sagely.

"Glad you agree with me, sir," he said. "It isn't much of a chance he has.... See you've been having a tramp around the district? Lots of folk come down this way on a walking tour. There's the pilgrim's path over the downs. A nice walk that."

A silence fell on the room. The man in the corner was staring vacantly at the man called George.

"Speaking to me?" he asked, slowly.

"Yes, sir. You agreed with me about this here murderer----"

"Did I?"

He did not know he had spoken. His brain was not under his control, and the reminder that he had addressed this man called George sent his fears sky-high.

A footstep sounded in the passage and a man stood on the threshold of the taproom, beckoning to the landlord. The murderer sank deeper into the shadow. The man who had beckoned to the landlord was a policeman.

The landlord went out and there was a hum of conversation carried on in low tones. In a few minutes the landlord returned, his face grave and solemn.

"That's Ben Turner, the constable," he announced. "He says that they've reason to think the murderer is in the district. He left the city on a bus last night----"

"The murderer?"

"Uh-huh. He left his lodgings not half an hour before the cops went there to get him. He was easily traced. He left his hat and plenty of finger-prints, and a coat button."

The fugitive lowered his head still further and hid his face in his arms, pretending to be asleep. But his ears were open to catch every word.

"And me, I was just saying," said the man called George, "that I wouldn't like to have the feelings of that man. Hunted for his life."

"What about the life he took, George? It was a bad business. He battered that woman up terrible."

"There ain't much in a man that attacks a lone woman," cried one of the countrymen. "The sooner he's caught the better."

"Oh, he'll be caught all right," said George. "They're always caught. They make mistakes."

"I'd like to think it," said the landlord, skeptically. "Things ain't safe with them kind about."

"Yes, they make mistakes," continued George, quietly. "Even them that plan murder and carry it out in cold blood. Even them. They can't help it."

The murderer raised his head cautiously and saw George laying down his tankard of beer to resume his speech.

"You see," said George, "they're bound to make mistakes. A murderer fleeing from the law is handicapped by the strain and anxiety of the chase. Just think of it! He can't lie down and sleep in peace. He can't be seen in the daytime. He daren't go near his friends. The police are watching his usual haunts. They are at the railway depots. They are making inquiries everywhere. There isn't a step a murderer dare take that he must not test before he takes it. The telephone is working against him. So is the telegraph. So is the wireless. At the morning parade in every police headquarters this morning this man's description has already been read out. I tell you a murderer's position is hopeless from the start. Think of the wearing effect on him. England isn't so big. No country is so big that he can expect a getaway. It isn't that his danger is ever over. So long as he is uncaught he is in danger. A murder charge hangs fire for all his life. And then, when his nerves are in rags, he makes a false move, says an incriminating word--and he's done for!"

"Maybe that's true," said the landlord. "How'd you come to know all that, George?"

"I knows it by watching the foxes that rob the henroosts. When you corner a fox you can see the hopelessness in his eyes. You may have him treed, or just cornered. It don't matter. You can see him making his bad moves. You know he knows the fight is hopeless. In the end he gets desperate, reckless. Then you've got him. The same with dogs. And men, too. Some men do one thing and some do another. It all depends on their brains. But sooner or later their brains fail 'em. The torture of being hunted tells. The police know it well enough. I've talked it over with an inspector."

He turned toward the man in the corner, eager to find some one who would agree with him. But the man in the corner seemed to be asleep, his cap drawn down over his forehead. The landlord rubbed his chin.

"Wonder who he is?" he said, scarcely above a whisper. "He's been tramping the road. Maybe looking for a job. I thought he looked like needing a wash----"

He crossed the room and laid a hand on the fugitive's shoulder.

"Gone asleep, sir? Better wake up or your beer will go stale!"

The man lifted his head. The landlord looked into the dirty, haggard face.

"Hey, what's your name?" he cried, quickly. "Where do you come from?"

For answer the man sprang to his feet and struck the landlord full on the mouth, sending him staggering back across the room. Then, upsetting the table and his food and drink, he leaped forward and was gone before a hand could be laid upon him.

As he raced past the window he heard the shouts of the men in the taproom:

"The murderer! It's the murderer!"

But Connolly ran on down the village street. He had a glimpse of a constable and a plain-clothes man emerging from the local police headquarters as he fled past; then he dived down a side entrance to a house, climbed over the wall at the bottom of the garden, and ran across the meadows toward the river.

He had a good start. A thick wood clothed the banks of the stream, and beyond the wood was hilly country. If he could gain the hills he might hide until night and then make his way back to the city. The country, where he had expected to find security, was his enemy. His thoughts went back to London and its opportunities. He saw his mistake in coming to the country. The old theory that a city is the best place in which to hide pierced its way into his mind with painful acuteness. And as quick as it came this theory vanished. What chance had he in London? There were teeming millions, it was true, moving about its streets; but there were thousands of policemen. No, the country was the place, after all! The woods, and the hills, where he could see his enemies from a distance! He could not see them, at least he could not distinguish them, among his neighbors in London.

These thoughts flashed through his brain as he raced toward the river and the woods. They were not so much thoughts as impressions, swift and fleeting. He cast a glance behind him. He was being pursued, the policeman and the plain-clothes man in advance of others. A dozen people, mostly men, were strung out in the chase. The hounds and their quarry.

Connolly dashed into the river, which was not deep, and waded across. Into the woods he ran, but when he saw a grassy slope beyond the trees he knew that he would be caught before he reached the ravines and wooded gullies farther ahead. He rushed back to the river.

His pursuers were now on the opposite bank. He heard them shouting and saw them gesticulating. He dodged behind the trees and shrubbery, racing, bent almost double, into the thick undergrowth and pushing along the bank. Suddenly he burst through the shrubs and found himself facing a small inlet, a backwater of green, slimy water out of which reeds and rushes grew in profusion. He plunged into the almost stagnant place and found that the bottom was soft with ooze; but it was not more than a foot or so deep. He lay down among a large clump of reeds, drawing them over his face as best he could.

It was terribly cold, but he did not feel the chill. He hugged the tall grasses and weeds, covering himself with them so that only his face was above the surface, and that practically hidden. He could thus breathe.

Hardly had his arrangements been made when he heard his pursuers. They were searching the wood. The water around him was now smooth and untroubled. Peering through the grasses he saw, on the edge of the inlet, the figure of the man called George.

"Seen him, George?" called a voice. It was the policeman's voice.

George did not answer at once. His eyes were sweeping the creek, resting on every bunch of reeds slowly and critically. Connolly felt these eyes come to his clump. He felt that George was gazing straight at him, that their eyes had met. A tremble ran through Connolly's limbs. He was about to leap up and make a dash for it, when the voice of George answered the policeman's query:

"Expect he's through the wood and down in a hollow, Ben. But he can't escape. He'll be caught all right."

The searchers moved off, going toward the ravines.

Connolly could have sworn that the man called George had seen him--but that was evidently his own fears at work, his own nerves making hay of his better judgment. He raised his head and peered about. There was no sign of his pursuers. But they might come back. He crawled to the bank, a ghastly wretch covered with green slime and dripping with water. He was like a dirty water-snake. Now that he was free of the water of the inlet, he shivered.

He wrung the water from his garments as best he could and crawled toward a thick oak, on his hands and knees, resting his back against the trunk of the tree. He was exhausted and worn. His teeth chattered, but that was not altogether the result of cold.

But he dared not lie there. Already he seemed to hear voices in the distance. Some of those who had pursued him were returning, others from the village were crossing the stream. He was between two forces. Where could he find safety? Upward! He began to climb the tree.

It was terrible labor, but desperation lent aid to his slipping feet and clutching hands. At last he reached a heavy branch. He drew himself up and toiled upward into the thick foliage. Thus he found a screen between him and those who sought him. He looked down from a fork where he was lying like a lizard. He saw men and youths passing below. There were a few women, too. Oh, how the whole world was searching for him! All wanted to hang him. Strange how everybody sought revenge for a crime with which they had nothing to do and which they did not altogether understand. All they knew was that he had killed--and for that he must be killed.

He remained in the tree all day, undiscovered and unsuspected. Men moved about, but the wood had been searched so thoroughly that a rabbit could not have remained on the ground unseen; nor a mouse, for that matter. It was not until evening that the searchers left the wood and returned to the village.

What Connolly endured in that tree during that day only he and God knew. His clothes dried on him, becoming hard and uncomfortable. He could keep his perch only with the greatest difficulty; sometimes he lay clasping the branch in a sort of wakeful dream. Things assumed unreal shapes and appearances. But everything had been unreal from the moment he had lifted his hand against the woman. All was now a distorted nightmare, a frightful, spectral phantasma that moved ghost-like before him. His very existence was a matter of doubt to him. And gnawing at him was his excruciating anguish of mind and body that almost drove him frantic.

Time after time he drew aside the screen of foliage and looked about. The village did not seem disturbed. The houses were there, straight walls and horizontal roofs. The church steeple towered straight to heaven. Among the trees in the distance he saw a moving plume of white smoke. That was a train going to London. London!

Twilight came, then night. The lights in the village twinkled. The murderer lowered himself to the ground. He was so stiff that he fell when his feet touched the earth. He staggered to his feet and rubbed the blood of his body into circulation. Wave upon wave of despair swept over him. Food had not passed his lips, except for a mouthful at the inn, for twenty-four hours. He lay down and drank greedily from the muddy water of the creek. That revived him a little.

At midnight the village was dark and quiet. He came out of the wood.

Hunger was driving him--hunger and the necessity for action. He crouched low, like a hunted animal, with one idea in his mind. He must get to London. In the country people did not stay up late. He could get food at all hours in London. He had a little, a very little, money, and he could sell the trinkets he had taken from her. He crossed meadow after meadow, breaking his way through the hedges. He had almost reached the highroad when the headlights of an automobile swung round a corner and the roar of its engine filled his ears.

Connolly stood still in his tracks. His fears bawled at him that in the car were other pursuers, more police from London to hem him in. They were coming to the village. The village would be raised against him once more. London would be up in arms, too, watching and waiting to pounce on him. What chance had he in London? The same as he had in the country, and that was nil. Not a single chance anywhere! He dropped to the ground as the car rushed past him, so that the headlights might not pick him out. The act of dropping stirred his resistance. Was it true he had no chance? Not a single chance? He threw himself down on the grass under cover of a hedge to think it out. Was he capable of thought?

"I can't go to London," he cried. "They will be waiting at the railway and on the buses. And I can't walk. But there is bound to be a chance. One chance!"

The stifling truth burst on him that he was not really fighting men at all now. He was fighting the emotionless, relentless machine called the Law. That machine was searching for him, outlawing him, driving him to desperation and to thoughts of unspeakable reprisals. His weariness was so heavy that it bore him into a state of semi-consciousness. He lay motionless under the hedge.

The hours passed.

He came back to himself as the gray dawn tinged the east. For other men it was a new day, born in hope and promising the glory of achievement. For him...!

After a while he raised himself to his knees, and so to his feet. He stepped into the highway. A fierce resolution stirred within him. He had an idea.

Not more than a hundred yards down the road a red brick villa stood isolated. The blinds were drawn. But in the villa there must be food, drink, clothing.

Connolly walked toward the house, slunk round to the back, and prised open a window with his pocket knife. In climbing over the sill his foot caught a flower pedestal and sent it down with a crash.

If Connolly had any idea of retreating, he had no time to do so, for the door of the room was flung open and the light was switched on. An elderly man, clad in clerical garb, stood on the threshold.

He saw Connolly and the broken pedestal in one glance.

"Who are you?" he asked, not angrily, but puzzled and annoyed. He passed his thin fingers through his white hair as he advanced.

"You disturbed me at early study," he said. "What do you want?"

Still Connolly did not answer. The white-haired man was close to him now. His face was pale, and Connolly saw that his hands were trembling. The clergyman gazed hard at him.

"You are the murderer!"

Still Connolly did not answer.

"What do you want here?"

This time the fugitive replied, fiercely:

"Food. Drink. Clothes."

"Your name is Connolly?"

"It is."

"I recognized you from the pictures in the newspapers. It was you the village people chased."

"I want food," cried Connolly.

"I can give you food."

"I want drink."

"I can give you drink."

"I want a place to hide."

"I cannot give you that."

They stared at each other, this desperate, worn-out man who was a murderer, and the old priest.

"There is no sanctuary here," said the priest in a low tone. "The days of sanctuary are long past."

Connolly groaned.

"The church can offer you only one thing."

"What?" cried Connolly.

"Repentance!"

Again Connolly groaned.

Suddenly the spark of resentment that flickered in him blazed up.

"I could kill you, too!" he shouted.

"I know. Would that help you in any way?"

Connolly had expected opposition. The admission startled him strangely. It was as if the words had disarmed him. They left him more confused than ever.

"Give me," he pleaded, "give me a chance to get away."

"I dare not."

"What?"

"The law forbids it."

Connolly's last hope crashed. He recollected, in a fumbling way, that he had asked this priest to do something that would bring him under the lash of the Law--that rigid, unrelaxing force that was on his own trail, that machine that was mightier than any individual.

The longer he stayed in that house the nearer the Law would creep until it laid its hand on him. He turned and was halfway out of the window when he heard the voice of the priest:

"Stay here and you shall have food and drink. It is all I dare give you. All except my prayers----"

Connolly heard no more. He was racing out toward the highroad.

He crossed the meadows again and reached the river bank. Some distance ahead he saw a figure seated on the slope. He crept forward and saw that this man was fishing. By his side was an open basket and a pile of sandwiches lay on an open handkerchief. Connolly recognized the figure. The fisher was the man called George.

Connolly was being driven by hunger. He picked up a heavy stick, part of a fallen branch of a tree, that lay on the open ground. He crept toward the man.

He was within a few feet of George when he stood up, raising the stick above his head. But he did not strike. The man turned his head and looked at him. Connolly dropped the stick and dashed into the river, wading rapidly to the other side.

He climbed the muddy bank and walked toward the village.

The man called George followed him, but the murderer took no notice.

He reached the village street and strode into the inn. The landlord behind the bar saw him and shouted:

"It is the murderer! Seize him!"

The murderer made no attempt to escape. The man called George was behind him and a policeman was coming in at the door. As he came forward Connolly held out his hands for the handcuffs. When they were fastened on his wrists he sat down with a strange, savage satisfaction and looked up at the man called George.

"I could have killed you also," he cried. "But that would never have given me what I want most."

The man called George nodded sagely.

"I know," he said in a soft tone. "I saw you in the creek yesterday. I knew you stayed in the wood all day. I know how you felt. I have been a warder in my day. You murderers are all the same. You are your own prosecutors. Only yourselves can give you what you want most."

"What did he want most, George?" asked the landlord. "Why did he give himself up so easy?"

The answer came from the murderer as he rose to go with the constable.

"The fox is treed!" he cried, wearily. "Can a man fight a nation? Take me to be hanged! At last I can rest!"