"You?" he whispered, "you? Oh, Peter!—oh, my boy!" "But I am innocent—innocent—you believe me—you who were my earliest friend—my good, kind friend—you believe me?" and I stretched out my hands appealingly, but, as I did so, the light fell gleaming upon my shameful wristlets; and, even as we gazed into each other's eyes, mute and breathless, came the sound of steps and hushed voices. Sir Richard sprang forward, and, catching me in a powerful hand, half led, half dragged me behind a tall leather screen beside the hearth, and thrusting me into a chair, turned and hurried to meet the intruders. They were three, as I soon discovered by their voices, one of which I thought I recognized. "It's a devilish shame!" the first was saying; "not a soul here for the funeral but our four selves—I say it's a shame—a burning shame!" "That, sir, depends entirely on the point of view," answered the second, a somewhat aggressive voice, and this it was I seemed to recognize. "Point of view, sir? Where, I should like to know, are all those smiling nonentities—those fawning sycophants who were once so proud of his patronage, who openly modelled themselves upon him, whose highest ambition was to be called a friend of the famous 'Buck' Vibart—where are they now?" "Doing the same by the present favorite, as is the nature of their kind," responded the third; "poor Maurice is already forgotten." "The Prince," said the harsh voice, "the Prince would never have forgiven him for crossing him in the affair of the Lady Sophia Sefton; the day he ran off with her he was as surely dead—in a social sense—as he is now in every sense." Here the mist settled down upon my brain once more, and I heard nothing but a confused murmur of voices, and it seemed to me that I was back on the road again, hemmed in by those gibbering phantoms that spoke so much, and yet said but one word: "Murder." "Quick—a candle here—a candle—bring a light—" There came a glare before my smarting eyes, and I struggled up to my feet. "Why—I have seen this fellow's face somewhere—ah!—yes, at an inn—a hang-dog rogue—I threatened to pull his nose, I remember, and—by Heaven!—handcuffs! He has been roughly handled, too! Gentlemen, I'll lay my life the murderer is found—though how he should come here of all places—extraordinary. Sir Richard—you and I, as magistrates—duty—" But the mist was very thick, and the voices grew confused again; only I knew that hands were upon me, that I was led into another room, where were lights that glittered upon the silver, the decanters and glasses of a supper table. "Yes," I was saying, slowly and heavily; "yes, I am Peter Smith—a blacksmith—who escaped from his gaolers on the Tonbridge Road—but I am innocent—before God—I am innocent. And now—do with me as you will—for I am—very weary—" Sir Richard's arm was about me, and his voice sounded in my ears, but as though a great way off: