orway, a mere shadow in the
darkness; and a mounted patrol later in the night saw a light in the
bedroom window where the invalid Mrs. Beasley was confined. But no one
saw her afterwards. Later, Ira explained that she had gone to visit a
relative until her health was restored. Having few friends and fewer
neighbors, she was not missed; and even the constable, the sole
surviving guest who had enjoyed her brief eminence of archness and
beauty that fatal night, had quite forgotten her in his vengeful quest
of the murderer. So that people became accustomed to see this lonely man
working in the fields by day, or at nightfall gazing fixedly from his
doorway. At the end of three months he was known as the recluse or
"hermit" of Bolinas Plain; in the rapid history-making of that epoch it
was forgotten that he had ever been anything else.

But Justice, which in those days was apt to nod over the affairs of the
average citizen, was keenly awake to offenses against its own officers;
and it chanced that the constable, one day walking through the streets
of Marysville, recognized the murderer and apprehended him. He was
removed to Lowville. Here, probably through some modest doubt of the
ability of the County Court, which the constable represented, to deal
with purely circumstantial evidence, he was not above dropping a hint to
the local Vigilance Committee, who, singularly enough, in spite of his
resistance, got possession of the prisoner. It was the rainy season, and
business was slack; the citizens of Lowville were thus enabled to
give so notorious a case their fullest consideration, and to assist
cheerfully at the ultimate hanging of the prisoner, which seemed to be a
foregone conclusion.

But herein they were mistaken. For when the constable had given his
evidence, already known to the county, there was a disturbance in the
fringe of humanity that lined the walls of the assembly room where the
committee was sitting, and the hermit of Bolinas Plain limped painfully
into the room. He had evidently walked there: he was soaked with rain
and plastered with mud; he was exhausted and inarticulate. But as he
staggered to the witness-bench, and elbowed the constable aside, he
arrested the attention of every one. A few laughed, but were
promptly silenced by the court. It was a reflection upon its only
virtue,--sincerity.

"Do you know the prisoner?" asked the judge.

Ira Beasley glanced at the pale face of the acrobat, and shook his