“Yes,” said Gray, “I—I am up soon. I like the cool air of the morning.” The man looked very earnestly at him, and Gray’s heart sunk within him at the thought that he was about to be recognised and taken. He made one effort to save himself by quietly adding,— “It’s nothing to me to be in the fields early or late. I am well armed.” The man stepped back a pace at this intimation, and Gray saw that whether or not the man had any criminal designs against his liberty, he had succeeded in awakening his fears. “No offence, sir,” he said—“no offence, I hope—I’m a poor fellow, come upon business from Westminister.” “Oh! From Westminister,” said Gray. Then he paused, and fixed an eager searching glance upon the man, who added,— “Have you heard of the murder last night, sir, of Mr. Vaughan?” “No,” said Gray, “I have not been in London for some time, although I have very nearly wandered out of my track.” A clock at this moment chimed some quarters, and the man said,— “The clock of the old church at Hampstead sounds clearly across the fields.” “At Hampstead,” muttered Gray, gazing earnestly around him, for he was as ignorant as possible of the locality in which he rightly surmised he had been left by those who had eased him of all his wealth. “Yes, there’s the church peeping among the tree, sir,” added the man. “I know it well,” said Gray, “my family all lie buried in its humble graveyard.” “Oh, indeed, sir,” said the man, and then he went with a slow step towards a tree, and taking a little tin can and a brush from his pocket, he began lathering it with paste. Gray watched his proceedings with intense curiosity, for he could not surmise what he could possibly be about to do. All wonder and conjecture were, however, speedily set at rest, for the man took a large printed bill from his hat, and the first word that struck Jacob Gray was the awful and ominous one of “Murder” in large letters on the top. The man pasted the bill on to the trunk of the tree carefully and evenly, and then he paused for a moment, and in a low, mumbling voice, read it. Jacob Gray was in such a position that he could not see the smaller print of the bill with sufficient distinctness to read it. The one word at the top—murder, only came out strongly and clearly to his eyes. That the placard concerned him, he never for a moment doubted, and now his agony became intense, at the thought that the man was most probably then engaged in mentally concerning his Gray’s, personal appearance, with a description of him in the bill. His anxiety while the man was reading became so intense, that he could neither speak nor move, and it was not until the man turned to him, and said,— “A horrid murder, sir, it seems,” that he found breath to answer him, in a confused manner. “Yes—yes,” he said, “a very horrid murder. Have you caught the murderer?”