“What can I do for you, sir?” “Confound you! you can explain things, I suppose. You can tell we where the devil I am now!” “You are at the rectory of Haymore parish, sir, where you were brought on the night of that unfortunate”—Longman paused a moment for an inoffensive word, and then added—“disturbance at Haymore Hall.” “Disturbance—at Haymore Hall!” muttered the criminal, growing pale as ashes and sinking back upon his pillow. No revelation yet had struck him so heavily as this. And it brought back a more exact memory, though not yet a perfect one, of the recent past. Longman hurried to the other end of the room and returned with a powerful restorative. He held Gentleman Geff up on his left arm while he put the draught to his lips with his right hand. The criminal drained the last drop, and then sank down upon his pillow, while Longman withdrew his arm and replaced the empty glass. Gentleman Geff did not speak again. He was possessed of a fear of talking, lest he should “commit” himself. But he now reflected the more, though his deductions were still confused. “No wonder I could not remember the details of my trial—a trial that never occurred, but was only a dream of fever. But all the same, if it has not yet come off, it is to come, unless I go!” He laughed a little to himself at this poor joke, and then he tried to recall the incidents of that “disturbance” at Haymore Hall. But he could not think consecutively for many minutes before his thoughts became entangled, and dreams were mingled with realities, and false inferences deduced from the union. “I remember now,” he said to himself, “something about that row at Haymore Hall, though my illness must have made some things seem vague to me on first recovering my senses. But I remember now!” Even as he spoke the words and tried to marshal the facts in their proper sequence, memory and imagination fled, and left his mind a vacuum again. Some hours later, after Longman had given him a bowl of strong beef tea and a glass of fine old port wine, his mental faculties rallied again, though feebly, and he thought he could form a correct theory; he would not try to get help in doing this by asking any question. He was too much afraid of compromising himself in some way. “I do recall now,” he told himself, “the cause of that row at Haymore Hall. Let me see—— “I had just arrived with my wife and my brother-in-law at Haymore, to take possession, when I was met by officers with a warrant for my arrest on the charge of murder—— “How was that, now? Let’s see—oh, yes! I was arrested upon a warrant, issued under the extradition treaty with the United States, charged with the murder of Randolph Hay in California, and of Jennie Montgomery in New York——” Here the wretched man paused, shuddered and covered his face with his hands. The horror of his crime overcame him, as it had so often done, when it drove him to seek oblivion in strong drink, and finally made him a drunkard.