“Well, it appears that he had been drinking heavily for some hours, and the last house he called at the landlord refused to serve him. He became so violent that he had to be ejected. After that he offered to fight everybody; at length he was persuaded to go away. The last time he was seen alive was in Bedhall’s-lane; and at the end of this, near the high road, he was found in a dying condition.” “Dear me, how very terrible! Has he been subjected to violence? Has anyone attacked him?” “They seem to say not. When last seen he was running like mad. The supposition is that he stumbled and fell, his head striking against a heap of stones near to where he was found.” Peace began to be seriously concerned. “What sort of a man was he?” he enquired. “I don’t know, but there’s a carter outside who saw him.” Peace rose at once, and proceeded to the front entrance of the house. A man was giving his horses some hay and water in front of the hostelry. “Here, Jem,” said Brickett, “tell the gentleman what kind of man it was who was found on the Saltwich-road in a dying condition.” The carter scratched his head and remarked―― “What sort o’ man? Well, un seemed a tallish chap, looked like a tramp.” “Pale or dark?” “Dunno. Ye see his face were smothured in blood, so un couldn’t say.” “Had he dark bushy whiskers?” “Yes, sticking out on the side on his cheeks.” “Had he on a ragged fustian coat and moleskin trousers, much the worse for wear?” “Yes, un ’ad.” “And short cropped dark hair?” “His hair was a bit short.” “Ah, thank you. Will you have a mug of ale?” “Aye, thank ’ee, zur, I will.” The ale was drawn and drunk with evident relish by the carter, who was apparently not much discomposed by the sight he had witnessed some hour or two before. Peace returned to the club-room. He was followed by Brickett. “Well,” said the latter, “how about the description? Do ’ee know aught about the stranger?” “I am afraid I do,” returned Peace, who then proceeded to make his companion acquainted with his rencontre with Bristow. “And it is just possible,” he said, in conclusion, “that the miserable besotted wretch spent the money I gave him in drink. I say it is possible――nay, more, it is most probable.” “If I were you I’d just run over to Saltwich and see if it be he――that is, if you can spare the time.” In less than half an hour after this Charles Peace rang the porter’s bell at the workhouse. He was conducted by the master into a small apartment. An iron bedstead was in this, on the mattrass of which was stretched the dead body of a man. One glance sufficed. It was the last mortal remains of John Bristow. The whole affair had been so sudden, the denouement to the tragedy so swift, or it might be said electric, that Peace stood appalled. “You know him, then?” said the master of the workhouse. “I did know him years ago, but never dreamed it would end thus.” “There will be an inquest,” said the workhouse official. Peace nodded.