“On the day after my arrest--I spare you all the harrowing scenes, my poor wife’s agony, and every thing, colonel--on the day after, I got into my carriage, and went and demanded to be confined in jail. It was the first time a Davenant had ever been _in jail_--but I went thither without hesitation, if not without a shudder. No sooner had I taken this step than the whole country seemed to have left their homes to visit me in my prison. On the evening of the scene at the grave, twenty persons had called at the ‘Pines,’ to express their sympathy and indignation at the charge against me. Now, when the iron door of the law had closed upon me, and I was a real prisoner, the visitors came in throngs without number. One and all, they treated the charge as the mere result of Judge Conway’s fury--some laughed at, others denounced it as an attempt to entrap and destroy me--all were certain that an investigation would at once demonstrate my innocence, and restore me to liberty and honor. “Alas! I could only thank my friends, and reply that I hoped that such would be the result. But when they had left me alone, I fell into fits of the deepest dejection. “What proofs could I give that I was innocent? There was a terrible array of circumstances, on the contrary, to support the hypothesis of my guilt--much more than I have mentioned, colonel. I had visited the courthouse on the same day with poor George Conway, and for the first time in twenty years had exchanged words with him. And the words were unfriendly. We had both been in the clerk’s office of the county, when that gentleman asked me some common-place question--in what year such a person had died, and his will had been recorded, I think. I replied, mentioning a year. The clerk shook his head, declaring that it must have been later, and appealed to poor George Conway, who agreed with him, adding, ‘Mr. Davenant is certainly in the wrong.’ I was much annoyed that day--made some curt reply--poor George made a similar rejoinder, and some harsh, almost insulting words, passed between us. The affair went no further, however. I left the clerk’s office, and having attended to the business which brought me, left the court-house about dusk. As I mounted my horse, I saw poor George Conway riding out of the place. I followed slowly, not wishing to come up with him, turning into a by-road which led toward my own house--and knew nothing of the murder until it was bruited abroad on the next day.