been sent into the village for some medicine for a sick beast,
and was returning to the farm by the park a little before eleven, when
near the low gate I saw a man standing with his back to me. The moon was
shining, and I recognized him at once for Mr. George Manners, of
Beckfield. When Mr. Manners saw me he seemed much excited, and called
out, "Quick! help! Mr. Lascelles has been murdered." I said, "Good
God! who did it?" He said, "I don't know; I found him in the
ditch; help me to carry him in." By this time I had come up and saw Mr.
Lascelles on the ground, lying on his side. I said, "How do you know
he's dead?" He said, "I fear there's very little hope; he has bled so
profusely. I am covered with blood." I was examining the body, and as I
turned it over I found that the right hand was gone. It had been cut off
at the wrist. I said, "Look here! Did you know this?" He spoke very low,
and only said, "How horrible!" I said, "Let us look for the hand; it may
be in the ditch." He said, "No, no! we are wasting time. Bring him in,
and let us send for the doctor." I ran to the ditch, however, but could
see nothing but a pool of blood. Coming back, I found on the ground a
thick hedge-stake covered with blood. The grass by the ditch was very
much stamped and trodden. I said, "There has been a desperate struggle."
He said, "Mr. Lascelles was a very strong man." I said, "Yes; as strong
as you, Mr. Manners." He said, "Not quite; very nearly though." He said
nothing more till we got to the hall; then he said, "Who can break it to
his sister?" I said, "They will have to know. It's them that killed him
has brought this misery upon them." The low gate is a quarter of a mile,
or more, from the hall.'

"Death seems to have been inflicted by two instruments--a wounding and a
cutting one. As yet, no other weapon but the stake has been discovered,
and a strict search for the missing hand has also proved fruitless. No
motive for this wanton outrage suggests itself, except that the unhappy
gentleman was in the habit of wearing on his right hand a sapphire ring
of great value." (An heirloom; it is on my finger as I write, dear Nell.
Oh! my poor boy.) "All curiosity is astir to discover the perpetrator of
this horrible deed; and it is with the deepest regret that we are
obliged to state that every fresh link in the chain of evidence points
with fatal accuracy to one whose position, character, and universal
popularity would seem to place him ab