t seemed to me that the room began to turn round. "Let us
fix it up at once," he added. "I have engaged a man to drive me to the
station and I want to take the next train."

Evening came. The day had been filled with tremors and whirls, so dazed
was I, dreamily listening to details, now startled, now seeming to be
far away--shaking hands, signing papers; and now it was all settled, and
I, on a horse, rode toward home to seek a night of rest in the country.
The moon was full. I heard the sharp clack of hoofs, and, looking back,
I saw a man riding as if it were his aim to overtake me. I jogged along
slowly and Etheredge came up.

"How are you, Mr. Hawes? I have heard of your wonderful luck and I
congratulate you. I intended to see you in town to-night, but learned
that you had come out here, so I rode fast to overtake you. I have sold
out and will leave here to-morrow morning."

"What! Then you won't be here at the trial?"

"I shall not be needed, sir. Now I am going to tell you something and I
hope that in your mind, and in the mind of the public, the good which it
will do may in some measure atone for the wrong----"

His horse stumbled, and he did not complete the sentence. I was afraid
to say anything, was afraid that eagerness on my part might stir the
vagaries of his peculiar mind and drive him into stubborn silence. So I
said nothing. He rode close to me, reached over and put his hand on my
arm. "Mr. Hawes," he said, leaning toward me, and in the moonlight his
face was ghastly, "Mr. Hawes, Alf Jucklin did not kill Dan Stuart."

"What!" I cried, bringing my horse to a stand-still and seizing his
bridle-rein.

"Let us be perfectly calm now, and I'll tell you all about it. Turn
loose my bridle-rein and let us ride on slowly."

Down the moon-whitened road the horses slowly walked. I waited for him
to continue. "No, sir, Alf didn't kill him. I found him in the road,
after Alf had called me, and I took him into my house and there was not
a mark on him, not one. I stripped him and nowhere was his skin broken.
Dan was born with organic disease of the heart, and for years I had been
treating him. He was sensitive and never spoke of his ailment and I was
the only one who knew the extent of it. Two years ago I told him that he
was likely to die at any minute, and I repeatedly warned him against
fatigue or any sort of agitation. And it was rage that killed him when
Alf's pistol fired. The hammer of Dan's pistol caught i