“That’s for your people,” said the guard. “Now, look alive in there, will you.” “Damn that ’ere bag, it warn’t ready night afore last: this won’t do, you know.” “Anything new up in town, Ben?” asked the gamekeeper, drawing back to the window-shutters, the better to admire the horses. “No, nothing that I knows on,” replied the man, pulling on his gloves. “Corn’s up a little. I heerd talk of a murder, too, down Spitalfields way, but I don’t reckon much upon it.” “Oh, that’s quite true,” said a gentleman inside, who was looking out of the window. “And a very dreadful murder it was.” “Was it, sir?” rejoined the guard, touching his hat. “Man or woman, pray, sir?” “A woman,” replied the gentleman. “It is supposed——” “Now, Ben,” cried the coachman impatiently. “Damn that ’ere bag,” said the guard; “are you gone to sleep in there?” “Coming,” cried the office-keeper, running out. “Coming,” growled the guard. “Ah, and so’s the young ’ooman of property that’s going to take a fancy to me, but I don’t know when. Here, give hold. All ri—ight!” The horn sounded a few cheerful notes, and the coach was gone. Sikes remained standing in the street, apparently unmoved by what he had just heard, and agitated by no stronger feeling than a doubt where to go. At length he went back again, and took the road which leads from Hatfield to St. Albans. He went on doggedly; but as he left the town behind him, and plunged further and further into the solitude and darkness of the road, he felt a dread and awe creeping upon him which shook him to the core. Every object before him, substance or shadow, still or moving, took the semblance of some fearful thing; but these fears were nothing compared to the sense that haunted him of that morning’s ghastly figure following at his heels. He could trace its shadow in the gloom, supply the smallest item of the outline, and note how stiff and solemn it seemed to stalk along. He could hear its garments rustling in the leaves, and every breath of wind came laden with that last low cry. If he stopped, it did the same. If he ran, it followed—not running too, that would have been a relief, but like a corpse endowed with the mere machinery of life, and borne upon one slow melancholy wind that never rose or fell. At times he turned with desperate determination, resolved to beat this phantom off, though it should look him dead; but the hair rose from his head, and his blood stood still; for it had turned with him and was behind him then. He had kept it before him that morning, but it was behind him now—always. He leant his back against a bank, and felt that it stood above him, visibly out against the cold night-sky. He threw himself upon the road—on his back upon the road. At his head it stood, silent, erect, and still—a living grave-stone with its epitaph in blood.