Chapter VII: Foreword (7)

Then came a servant whom I recognised as the woman who had opened the door for me. She wore mourning, and scarcely lifted her veil as she kissed the book. She gave her evidence nervously, and she began by explaining that she was never in a courthouse before. She swore she attended deceased, and that the latter had frequently said that she would leave everything to her nephew, Mr. George Ralph Jephson; that sometimes deceased--but that was only lately, a few weeks before she died--rambled about little Rafy, as she called him, that was drowned. As far as she could judge, the lady was in her right mind.

Mr. Devaney, solicitor, proved that he attended with a will prepared on the directions of Mr. Jephson, and which left everything to him. He had never seen testatrix before. He had no reason to doubt that she knew what she was doing. He read the will slowly for her. It was very short, and she said she understood it thoroughly, and she added that she wished to leave everything she had in the world to her nephew there, pointing, as she did so, to Mr. Jephson, who was standing at the side of the bed near witness.

Mr. Devaney's clerk gave similar evidence, and it appeared as if there was no more to be said. But Mr. Daunt, Q.C., who had let the previous witnesses off, I thought, rather easily, proceeded to cross-examine the clerk very closely.

"You had never seen the testatrix before, I suppose?"

"Never."

"But you took a good look at her when you did see her?"

"Well, I looked, of course, but I did not notice her very much--there was not very much light."

"Oh! there was not very much light," said Mr. Daunt, steadying his spectacles and fixing his gaze on the clerk. "How much light?"

"One candle."

"Only one candle when the testatrix was making her mark! Was that the reason she gave for not signing her name in full?"

"No. She said when Mr. Devaney asked her if she would sign her name, that she did not know how to write, but that she thought her mark would do."

"Did not know how to write!" interrupted the judge. "I thought testatrix was a lady of position."

"So she was, my lord," said Mr. Daunt.

"And did you take particular notice of the testatrix?" said counsel, addressing the witness.

"Well, not particular. I mean, I did not notice very much of her; but I noticed her hand and her finger when she was making her mark."

"Oh, you did! Tell the Court and the jury what you noticed," said Mr. Daunt, catching the edges of his gown and pulling them forward.

"I noticed that her hands were very coarse for a lady, I thought, my lord," said the witness looking up towards the judge. "And I saw that her forefinger had a deep mark along it, as if it had been badly cut or crushed some time or other."

"Come," said Mr. Daunt, leaning forward and looking the clerk full in the face. "Do you think you would know the testatrix if you saw her again?"

A buzz of excitement ran through the crowd.

"If I saw her again? Sure she's dead."

"Sure she's dead," said Mr. Daunt, echoing him; "but if she wasn't, do you think you could recognise her?"

"I think I might."

"And if you saw the hand and the finger would you recognise them?"

"I would."

"Are you sure of that?"

"I--I--well, I am sure. I believe I would."

"But Mr. Daunt," put in the judge, "this is an extraordinary course you are taking. The plea you have put in on behalf of your client is undue influence."

"Quite so, my lord; but the case is an extraordinary one, and I ask your lordship to bear with me for a moment in the interests of justice."

The judge nodded.

"My lord," continued Mr. Daunt, "would your lordship be good enough to request the witness, Agnes Marvel," that was the name of the servant who had been examined--"to come forward?"

"But, my lord," said Mr. Star, Q.C., who was on the opposite side, "this is quite irregular. My learned friend had an opportunity of cross-examining Agnes Marvel when she was in the witness-box."

"I shall call her forward, and then, if Mr. Daunt puts any question to which you take exception, I shall be happy to hear you, Mr. Star."

"Thank you, my lord," said Mr. Star, as he resumed his seat.

"I do not intend to ask any questions," said Mr. Daunt. "So my learned friend need not have been in such a hurry to interpose."

"Come forward, Agnes Marvel!" said the crier.

The woman came and stood near the clerk who was giving evidence.

"Lift up your veil, madam," said Mr. Daunt.

She did so with trembling hands which were encased in black cotton gloves.

"Now, will you be good enough to remove your gloves."

"What is the meaning of this?" said Mr. Star, Q.C., jumping up.

"My lord, I make this request on my responsibility as counsel."

"Where is the objection, Mr. Star?" said the judge.

The woman removed her gloves. Her face as she did so became deathly white, and without a word of warning she fell back, and would have fallen on the witness-table if the crier, who was standing near her, had not caught her in his arms.

There were cries of "Water!" and "Take her out into the air!"

"Perhaps, my lord," said Mr. Star, "an adjournment of the court would be agreeable, as it is near luncheon time."

"What do you say to that, Mr. Daunt?" asked the judge.

"May I ask the witness one more question, my lord."

"Yes."

"Did you, witness, see that woman's hand?"

"Yes."

"Was that the hand that signed the will?"

"I believe so."

The excitement in court was now intense.

"I think," said the judge, "we should go on. Bring in that woman if she has recovered," he continued, addressing a policeman.

The woman was brought in.

"Now," said the judge, turning towards Mr. Daunt, "you may repeat your question; but first let me warn this woman. Agnes Marvel?"

"Yes, my lord."

"The question which counsel is now about to put concerns you. Listen to it."

Mr. Daunt repeated the question, and the clerk answered it as before.

"Do you think you could recognise the features?"

"Now that I look at them I believe I do; but I won't be positive."

"My lord," said Mr. Daunt, "may I recall Mr. Malone?"

"For what, Mr. Daunt?"

"That he may describe the appearance of the lady whom he saw----"

"My lord! my lord!" interrupted Agnes Marvel, "if ye promise not to hang me I'll tell the truth. 'Twas I signed the will--'twas I signed it, and there's the man that tempted me," and she pointed to where Mr. George Ralph Jephson had been seated, but in the excitement he had succeeded in escaping.

There is no need to pursue the narrative further. Suffice it to say that the false will was set aside, and luckily, one made some years previous, and which was in the custody of a solicitor in England, was forthcoming. By this all the property of the late Miss Glasson was bequeathed in trust to Ralph Jephson and his children in equal portions should he predecease testatrix. The whole, therefore, fell to Miss Blanche Jephson.

But it may be interesting to state that Mr. Daunt was as much surprised at the _denouement_ as anyone else. He had intended to put only a few questions to Mr. Devaney's clerk as a matter of form, but the statement of the latter that the testatrix had said she had never written a line in her life aroused his curiosity, and when the clerk described the finger of testatrix a light suddenly flashed on his mind that made his way clear. With the acuteness and habit which come from long practice, he had taken note of the witness, Agnes Marvel, as she came to the stand to take the oath. She had, of course, to remove the glove from her right hand before taking the book in it, and he saw the disfigurement of the forefinger. Seeing that he had no case otherwise, he determined to hazard everything on the chance that Agnes Marvel had signed the will and not Miss Glasson.

A VISION OR A DREAM

I never had a decided opinion one way or the other on the subject of ghosts--that is to say, I was never able to affirm my belief in them, nor was I willing, on the other hand, to deny that occasionally they visited the glimpses of the moon. Nothing, however, would induce me to spend a night in a churchyard, and indeed, it would cost me a considerable effort to pass by one on a country road after nightfall if I chanced to be alone. The fact is, I suffered for many years, and from my earliest childhood from the effects of a morbid imagination. I had, when little over six years old, received a terrible shock by the suicide of a neighbour. I had often seen him pass by the door of the house in which we lived. He was, as well as I remember, an engineer, and he had a rather peculiar cast of countenance, which had made a deep impression on me. I did not see him lying dead, but I followed a crowd mainly composed of women which attended the coffin, as it was being borne on the shoulders of four men, to the house of the deceased. When the coffin was taken inside the door the crowd remained for a long time outside, and of course the fatal deed formed the sole topic of conversation. I was close to three or four women who were listening to another who was giving a most graphic description of the manner in which the unhappy man had taken his life. The details were probably the offspring of her imagination, but they sank into my mind and the recollection of them cost me hours and nights of the bitterest agony--an agony indeed, impossible to describe. I have not forgotten them yet, though close on half a century has passed away.

I was, as I have mentioned, only about six years old at the time, and I was sent to bed every night about eight o'clock. I slept at the top of the house, and in the same room one of the servants also slept. I have no recollection of having, prior to the time I speak of, felt any fear when left alone in the room in the dark, but the night on which I heard the account of the suicide was to open a new experience for me, and to leave a mark upon my mind and character which has never been wholly effaced.

I remember well, as if it were only last night, hearing the footfalls of the servant as she descended the stairs after having put me to bed. I can remember, too, the noises in the street, the sound of feet and the voices talking, when suddenly in the dark, and close to my face, I saw the face of the dead man! I have purposely omitted the details of the suicide, nor do I wish to describe here the face as I saw it. Let it suffice to say that it was exactly in the condition as described by the woman in the crowd. It was the peculiar face which I had been accustomed to see, only hideously marred by wounds.

I screamed as it came close to me--screamed as if my life was in my throat--screamed and screamed, but no help came. I was at the top of a high house and the door was closed. I covered my head with the clothes until I was almost smothered. I closed my eyes fast to shut out the horrid sight as I hoped, but only to see it more clearly. Sometimes the face, while preserving the likeness to the peculiar face of the engineer, as I was wont to see it when he was alive, seemed to spread itself out and then contract, and every lineament of it seemed to be in convulsive motion. The pressure of the clothes and the suffocating heat forced me at length to lift them up, and again I screamed--screamed like a wild animal in agony. At last I was heard. Someone came quickly up the stairs. The door was flung open, and the candle lighted. It was the servant.

"My God! What's the matter?" she exclaimed, as she saw me trembling as if I were in a fit and covered with perspiration.

I tried to explain as well as I could, and she endeavoured to soothe me. She remained by my side until I fell into a disturbed sleep. And for months after she, by the doctor's orders, who was called in next day, sat in the room until I slept. And for many years, until I became almost a man, I never ventured to sleep except in a lighted room.

But whenever I was alone, either at night time, or at day time, I was liable to see the faces such as I have since read in De Quincey's volume haunt the dreams of opium eaters. I have often started back shuddering from these faces, which have appeared suddenly in front of me when going by myself along a country road, even in the broad noon-day, when the sun was shining. And when people often expressed surprise that I never could be induced to visit a wake-house, they little knew that I could do so only at the price of being haunted for months by what I saw there, whenever I found myself alone.

I have narrated all this chiefly because it may serve in some degree to account for the phenomena which I witnessed under the circumstances I am about to describe.

About twenty years ago I paid a long promised visit to a friend, Gerald F----, who then lived in one of the counties bordering on Dublin, but who has since died.

He was engaged to be married to a very handsome girl, a Miss R----, whom he had met in London, but who was residing with her aunt not many miles from Creeve house, my friend's residence. The wedding was to take place a few months subsequent to my visit. The marriage promised to be full of happiness. The girl was as gracious as she was beautiful, and my friend Gerald was in every way worthy of her. Both were very well off. The girl, an orphan, had been well provided for by her parents, and had large expectations from her aunt. The young couple were deeply in love with each other, and Gerald was constantly driving over to her aunt's residence, and often took his fiancée for a drive through the charming country roads.

My visit was made in compliance with a promise which I had made long before the engagement took place, and which Gerald had frequently reminded me of. I came down to him not knowing of the engagement, and so when I heard the news I could not help remarking to him that my visit was rather ill-timed. But Gerald replied that he was delighted to see his old friend and to be able to talk over his own good fortune with him, and talk he did, I must say, to his heart's content. But one day he said he feared he was boring me when we were together, and that I must, on the other hand, find it rather dull to be left alone, as I often was, when he was away in the company of his fiancée.

I interrupted him by saying that I rejoiced in his happiness and to hear him speak of it, and that as I loved the country and was fond of books I was able to pass my time very pleasantly in the glorious summer weather we were having.

And the time undoubtedly slipped away very agreeably, until one evening, about three weeks after my arrival, I was reclining on the lawn in front of the house under the shadow of a fine ash that flung its branches over the little rippling stream that wound through the lawn, and thinking myself as happy as Horace used to be in a similar situation, when the sound of a very fast galloping horse came suddenly down the avenue.

I had barely time to turn round when the horse pulled up before the hall-door, and I saw it was Gerald's trap, and that he, white as a sheet, had one arm twined round Miss R----'s waist, with her head resting against his breast. I rushed up, and the look of unutterable agony in Gerald's eyes satisfied me, without even the sight of the blood upon Miss R----'s face, that a terrible tragedy had occurred.

Of course the first thing to be done was to remove the lady into the house. This was done, and the doctor was at once sent for, although the slightest observation satisfied us all that his services were of no avail. The poor girl was dead!

Gerald was at first too distracted to be able to give a coherent account of what had happened; but when he was calm enough to speak the story was soon told.

He and Miss R---- were driving together past Creveen Wood when a shot was fired. The lady was on the side from which it was fired, and she was struck and killed instantly. The horse, frightened by the report, had galloped on frantically making for home. Gerald made no attempt to stay it, as his sole thought was the wounded girl who had fallen beside him. Fortunately the gate leading into the avenue was open, and it was a pretty wide one, and the horse galloped through it without coming in contact with the piers.

The doctor arrived, and he was followed by the police, word having been sent to the neighbouring barrack. The former was, of course, no use, and the latter, after having heard what Gerald had to say went off to the plantation, but were unable to find any trace that would help them in the discovery of the assassin.

I need not dwell upon the details of the funeral, or upon Gerald's condition of mind, or the terrible sad nights which followed that of the tragedy. I remained up for several nights with Gerald, and indeed, nearly exhausted myself. The doctor, however, at last insisted that I should have some rest, and about a week after the dreadful occurrence I withdrew to my own room for the night.

I tried to sleep the moment I got into bed, but sleep kept away from me. I had put out the light and was tossing from side to side, when right in the dark in front of me was outlined a face! The strain upon my nerves had brought back the old haunting visions! The suddenness with which it appeared and its closeness startled me and brought the old dread back to me, although it was many years since I had suffered and I had become very strong.

There was nothing objectionable in the face. It was that of a young man about eight and twenty, and it bore something more than a faint resemblance to that of my friend Gerald. I tried instinctively the trick of closing my eyes, but only to see it, if possible more clearly, but as I looked at it, it began to recede from me, and to fall back towards the wall. Then I perceived that it was no longer only a face that presented itself; there was the figure of a man. He was dressed in dark grey tweed, rather the worse of wear, and looked like one who had received a military training. I had never seen the face before, but this did not surprise me, as my imagination had been wont to play me curious tricks in this way.

I began to think of other men whom I had known, and to bring their faces before me in the hope of blotting this one out, which, as I have said, caused me to feel as in the old nights of terror I was wont to feel, but just as I appeared to be on the point of succeeding the vision became more vivid, and again advanced up to the bedside, and then I noticed that in its right hand it carried a gun. Soon after it vanished, and I fell into a tolerably sound sleep, and slept late into the next day.

In about a fortnight after, Gerald, whom I had scarcely ever left except at bedtime, was coming to himself, and I found I could go out for an occasional stroll. And one day my steps involuntarily turned in the direction of Creveen Wood. Nothing had in the meantime turned up to elucidate the mystery. A reward had been offered, but no information was forthcoming, and all hope of discovery was abandoned.

I had come close to the plantation without being aware of it, but on recognising it I made an effort to turn back, but I was prevented doing so by an irresistible impulse which drove me forward. I entered the plantation, and after straying through it for some time my foot knocked against something hard, which emitted a peculiar sound. This caused me to look down to see what it was that I had struck against. I found it was a piece of metal. I picked it up and examined it carefully, and it seemed to be the portion of the lock of a gun.

Swift as a lightning flash came the recollection of what at the time had made no perceptible impression on my mind. The lock of the gun in the hand of the figure which I had seen in the vision was imperfect!

A strange excitement took possession of me, and I felt that if I could only find the original, if he existed, of that vision I should find the assassin of Miss R----.

Gerald's heart was bent on his discovery, and in one of our talks together he made me promise to help him in the search. I gave the promise to soothe him, believing at the time I made it that there was little or no likelihood that I could assist him.

I put the piece of metal in my pocket and returned to Creeve House.

Gerald, who had been able to leave his room, had come down to the study, and as I entered it I found him turning over the pages of an album of portraits.

I went over and sat down beside him, and congratulated him on his improved appearance. He shook his head sadly, and then, hoping to turn his thoughts from their object, which I had no doubt of, I put my finger on the album.

"Who is this?" said I.

It was the figure of an old lady.

"She was an aunt of mine."

I turned over the leaf, and the next portrait was that of the man I had seen in the vision! For a moment I held my breath; then bending down over the album, that my face might not betray me, I asked:

"Who is this?"

"A half-brother, Frank L----," he answered. "He was my mother's son by her first husband. Mother was a widow when she married father."

I burned to ask another question, but feared I might betray myself.

"She was very fond of him," he went on, "as fond as she was of me--fonder, I sometimes think, because he did not turn out too well. He was a soldier, and left his regiment under rather cloudy circumstances; but I don't know the particulars."

"He looks somewhat like you," I ventured to observe.

"More like mother, I should say," he replied.

"And where is he now?"

"I don't know. He was, when I last heard of him, lodging in Kingstown or Blackrock. I don't know much about him. We were never friends. He always resented mother's second marriage, and, I fear, hated me in consequence."

Then Gerald spoke of some other indifferent subject, and I did not desire to bring him back to the one uppermost in my mind. But as he talked the question shaped itself--"Was Frank L---- the assassin, and if so what could have been his motive?"

A few days after I left Creeve House as Gerald was nearly himself again. I found, however that the strain of attending him, and the anxiety, and the vision, and the haunting question ever putting itself to me, had taxed me more than I had thought, and I determined to spend a few days at the sea-side, and I found a couple of rooms that suited me in one of the houses on the Bray Esplanade not far from the "Head."

I took the rooms, put in my luggage, and went to Dublin for a few hours to transact some private business. It was near ten at night when I returned. I found my landlady very much perturbed. The gentleman who had occupied the rooms I had taken had, as she thought, gone away finally, but two or three days of his tenancy were unexpired, and he returned unexpectedly that evening. If I did not mind, she said, I could have for the night the room of another gentleman who was and would be absent for three or four days.

Of course I assented, and in a few minutes I was told the room was ready.

Being rather tired I went up to it on receiving this information. I glanced around it, and was satisfied. I sat on a chair facing the chimney-piece, in order to take off my boots; and this done, I gazed about more leisurely, and observed that over the mantle-place, in a rack, was suspended a gun. I went over towards it to examine it, as I am curious in firearms, and discovered with a sharp surprise that the lock of the gun was broken.

I hastily put my hand in my pocket, drew out the piece of metal which I had picked up in Creeveen Wood. It fitted the fracture perfectly!

For a moment I felt like one dazed, and then I began to look around the room as if in search of something, I knew not what. My eyes lighted on a portmanteau, bearing the initials "F.L." "Frank L----, by all that's wonderful," said I to myself.

I flung myself undressed upon the bed. I couldn't sleep. There was gas in the room, and I kept it burning all night.

When I met the landlady next morning I asked her, as if casually, who was the tenant of my room.

"Oh, Mr. L----," she answered; "he's been absent for some weeks, and may not return for some time. He often stays away for over a month."

What was I to do? I had no doubt whatever I had found the assassin!

Was I to tell Gerald F----? Would he believe in my visions? Would he regard the piece of metal as a proof, and if he did believe it would he thank me for convicting his mother's son of the crime?

No. I wouldn't tell, at least until I had pursued the matter further. So the next day I determined to cause some privately conducted investigations to be made concerning the recent career of Frank L----, but before I had well set them on foot, and within a few days of my discovery in the seaside lodgings, came the news through the morning papers that the body of a man was found on the line between Salthill and Kingstown, and from papers on him it turned out that he was a Mr. Francis L----!

Gerald F----, I know, attended the funeral. A week subsequent to it came the information from the private inquiry office which I had set in motion that L---- had been paying attentions to Miss R---- in London, and her maid had stated that she believed he had made a proposal and had been rejected.

L---- was dead and gone. There was no use in pushing the matter any further. Nothing could be gained by any disclosure I could make, and the only question that troubled me, and sometimes troubles me now, is, was what I saw in Creeve House a vision or a dream?

FROM THE JAIL TO THE BATTLEFIELD.

Early in the year 1743 a post-chaise, making for Dublin, was stopped on the road near Castleknock by two highwaymen, one of whom held the horses' heads, while the other, with pistol in hand, opened the coach door, and addressed its single occupant with the brief command: "Your money or your life."

The occupant of the carriage, Mr. Vesey, deeming prudence the better part of valour, handed out his money-bags containing several hundred pounds and his watch, and was then allowed to proceed to his destination. He at once acquainted the authorities; a vigorous search was set on foot, and in a few days two brothers named Silvester and William Keogh, who lived in the little village of Rathcoole, and who had a very bad reputation were arrested. One of these, William, was identified by Mr. Vesey as the man who had opened the door of the carriage and had robbed him of his money and his watch. He was unable to identify the other, who was, therefore, discharged from custody. William Keogh was put on his trial, and on the evidence of Mr. Vesey, convicted, and after sentence of death had been passed, was confined in old Kilmainham Jail, where the sentence was to be carried out.

A few days after the trial Mr. Vesey, who held a commission in the army, was ordered off for foreign service. He attained the rank of captain, and his regiment formed part of the English column that had so nearly made the field of Fontenoy "a Waterloo." And when, before the impetuous onset of the Irish Brigade that almost invincible column broke, scattered, and fled, Captain Vesey lay with "his back to the field and his feet to the foe." Two balls had pierced him and a clubbed musket, wielded by a fierce Irish exile's arm, had reduced him to insensibility. But he was not dead. Louis, when he saw that the field was won, gave orders that the English wounded should be cared for as tenderly as his own soldiers, and Captain Vesey was carried from the field to the hospital at Lille by an Irish soldier, of the regiment of Berwick, of the name of Vaughan, who displayed towards him the greatest solicitude. Captain Vesey received the utmost attention from the officers of the Irish Brigade at Lille, who, now that he was wounded and a prisoner in their hands, remembered only that he was their countryman. He soon became convalescent, and able to join the officers at mess. One evening when in the rooms of the Count de St. Woolstan, the conversation having turned on the incidents of the battle, an officer remarked that Captain Vesey in all probability owed his life to the private who had carried him off from the field when to all appearance he was dead. Captain Vesey eagerly asked for the soldier's name, and said it was strange that he had never looked to him for any recompense. Count de Woolstan undertook to find the soldier, and a few evenings later the latter presented himself at the count's quarters and was shown into the presence of Captain Vesey. The captain could hardly believe his eyes, but if they did not deceive him, there before him stood William Keogh, whom he had believed to be lying in a felon's grave in Kilmainham. He was about to call him by his true name, when it occurred to him that the recognition might be injurious to the man to whom he felt he was indebted for his life. He rose and thanked William _Vaughan_ warmly for his kindness, and offered him twenty gold pieces, but the soldier refused to take it. He was greatly agitated as he answered:

"No, Captain Vesey, I will never touch a penny of your money again."

"It would appear you have met before," remarked the count.

"We have," said Keogh, "but Captain Vesey does not know all. I will tell you."

But the count said he had no wish to become acquainted with the confidence that was not intended for him. That he knew Vaughan only as a good soldier and desired to know no more.

"And I pledge you my honour," said the captain, grasping Keogh by the hand, "I shall never allude to you except as the man to whom I owe my life."

Keogh pressed the captain's hand warmly in his, and then, with the tears starting to his eyes, he saluted the officers and left the room.

A few months afterwards an exchange of prisoners was effected, and when Captain Vesey was taking farewell of the gallant count, the latter informed him that he had promoted Vaughan to the rank of sergeant. Vaughan--or Keogh as we know him--asked for and was given the opportunity of saying good-bye to the captain, and he took a grateful farewell.

Years passed, and Captain Vesey had fought in India and America, when returning to Europe the fortune of war again made him a prisoner in the hands of the French when the Duc de Richelieu captured Minorca. And for the second time, Captain, or as he now was, Colonel Vesey, met with Count de Woolstan. Naturally enough they talked of former days, and the colonel made inquiries concerning Vaughan, and he learned that shortly after he (the colonel) had left Lille. Vaughan's brother had arrived from Ireland, joined Berwick's regiment and was killed at the battle of Raucoux. In that battle William was severely wounded and incapacitated for further service, and he had become an inmate of the _Hotel des Invalides_.

Colonel Vesey, on being allowed to go on parole to Paris, sought out the old sergeant whose escape from the gallows had often been the cause of curious but unsatisfactory conjecture. Keogh was delighted to see him, and, seated in one of the arbours in the garden of the Invalides, he told him the story of his escape.

"They are all dead and gone now," said he, "who assisted in it, and there is no longer need for secrecy. No one can be hurt by the disclosure."

His story was briefly this: When he and his brother had taken the money they put it into a canvas bag and hid it in a deep pool in the river Liffey below the Salmon Leap. There was a heavy weight attached to it to keep it down, but it could be easily removed by a drag. When lying in his condemned cell Keogh noticed that the jailer, who paid but little attention to the other prisoners awaiting execution, was particularly attentive to him, and one day the jailer entered the cell, and carefully closing the door sat down on the stool, and asked him if he could do anything for him. Keogh replied that the only thing he could do was to get him off being hanged. After a pause the jailer asked:

"Have you the money?"

"Every penny of it is safe," was the reply. "And there is fifteen hundred pounds for a true friend."

The bait was tempting, and the jailer confessed he was in need of money. If he could get that amount, he undertook to allow Keogh's brother, Sylvester, to pass through his rooms, bring with him a rope ladder, the key being left in the cell, and so the prisoner could escape at midnight. But William would not hear of his brother being brought into the plot, and suggested as an alternative that he, William, should get sick of jail fever, then a very common and often fatal disease; that he should appear to die of it, and be sent out in a coffin.

The jailer caught at the suggestion, but said there must be a real corpse, for there would have to be an inquest; and, he added, that in that case there would only be a thousand pounds for himself as the remaining five hundred should be divided amongst necessary accomplices on whom he could rely.

Accordingly Keogh feigned illness, and made himself really sick by the use of drugs with which the jailer supplied him. The prisoners in the cells at either side of him were removed, to be away from the contagion of the jail fever, from which Keogh was supposed to be suffering. At length he was reported dead, and the night of his supposed death the jailer introduced into his cell a corpse which had been dug up out of the hospital fields. This was placed in Keogh's bed and the latter was let out on the high road. The inquest was held and verdict found, the jury not taking the trouble to view the corpse, deterred from so doing by fear of infection, and the brother Sylvester, the better to keep up the deception, attended the funeral. William Keogh married a laundress in Paris and died about the year 1769, having by his gallant conduct atoned for the crime of his youth, and he had the happiness of knowing that he had not only obtained the forgiveness, but had also earned the gratitude of the man he had wronged.

ALL FOR A WOMAN'S EYES.