ays; on,
on, remorselessly drawing nearer, as the last ray of hope sank below the
horizon. The Home Secretary remained inflexible; the great petitions
discharged their signatures at him in vain. He was a Conservative,
sternly conscientious; and the mere insinuation that his obstinacy was
due to the politics of the condemned only hardened him against the
temptation of a cheap reputation for magnanimity. He would not even
grant a respite, to increase the chances of the discovery of Jessie
Dymond. In the last of the three weeks there was a final monster meeting
of protest. Grodman again took the chair, and several distinguished
faddists were present, as well as numerous respectable members of
society. The Home Secretary acknowledged the receipt of their
resolutions. The Trade Unions were divided in their allegiance; some
whispered of faith and hope, others of financial defalcations. The
former essayed to organize a procession and an indignation meeting on
the Sunday preceding the Tuesday fixed for the execution, but it fell
through on a rumor of confession. The Monday papers contained a last
masterly letter from Grodman exposing the weakness of the evidence, but
they knew nothing of a confession. The prisoner was mute and disdainful,
professing little regard for a life empty of love and burdened with
self-reproach. He refused to see clergymen. He was accorded an interview
with Miss Brent in the presence of a jailer, and solemnly asseverated
his respect for her dead lover's memory. Monday buzzed with rumors; the
evening papers chronicled them hour by hour. A poignant anxiety was
abroad. The girl would be found. Some miracle would happen. A reprieve
would arrive. The sentence would be commuted. But the short day darkened
into night even as Mortlake's short day was darkening. And the shadow of
the gallows crept on and on and seemed to mingle with the twilight.

Crowl stood at the door of his shop, unable to work. His big gray eyes
were heavy with unshed tears. The dingy wintry road seemed one vast
cemetery; the street lamps twinkled like corpse-lights. The confused
sounds of the street-life reached his ear as from another world. He did
not see the people who flitted to and fro amid the gathering shadows of
the cold, dreary night. One ghastly vision flashed and faded and flashed
upon the background of the duskiness.

Denzil stood beside him, smoking in silence. A cold fear was at his
heart. That terrible Grodman! As the hangm