But there was no such appearance, nor the smallest reason to suppose that Clarkson had been within half a mile of the spot that day.

On the contrary, no reasonable doubt could exist that the real murderer was the Indian who had been found among the bushes.

The men who knew him spoke of him as passionate, brutal, more than half-savage--there was perfect fitness between his appearance and character, and the barbarous manner of his crime.

And yet while everybody spoke of him as undoubtedly guilty, almost everybody had a thought of Clarkson haunting his mind, and an uneasy desire to find out the truth, entirely incompatible with the clearness of the circumstantial evidence.
It was already nearly nine o'clock when Margery going from the Cottage to Mr.Leigh's, on some errand to his housekeeper, brought back with her the story which a passing acquaintance had carried so far.

She came into the parlour full of the not unpleasant sensation of having a piece of strange and horrible news to tell.
Mrs.Costello had left the room for a moment and Lucia was alone, sitting rather drearily looking into the fire, with her work fallen into her lap, when Margery came in.
"Miss Lucia, there's an awful thing happened." "What, Margery ?" Lucia half smiled, for Margery loved marvels, and made much of them.
"Doctor Morton is dead." "Impossible! Hush, don't say it." "It is true, miss.