The words "miscreant," "horrible and bloody murder," and "portrait of the assassin," still rang in his ears--loud--sonorous--deep--and with a prolonged echo like that of a bell! Already were men speculating upon his whereabouts, and anxious for his apprehension--some for the reward, others to gratify a morbid curiosity: already were the newspapers, the cheap press, and the pamphleteers busy with his name. None now mentioned him save as _the miscreant William Bolter_. Oh! if he could but escape to some foreign land,--if he could but avoid the ignominious consequences of his crime in this,--he would dedicate the remainder of his days to penitence,--he would toil from the dawn of morning till sunset to obtain the bread of honesty,--he would use every effort, exert every nerve to atone for the outrage he had committed upon the laws of society! But--no! it was too late. The blood-hounds of the law were already upon his track. An hour passed away; and during that interval the murderer sought to compose himself by means of his pipe and the rum-bottle: but he could not banish the horrible ideas which haunted him. Suddenly a strange noise fell upon his ear. The blood appeared to run cold to his very heart in a refluent tide; for the steps of many feet, and the sounds of many voices, echoed through the old house. The truth instantly flashed to his mind: the police had entered the premises. With hair standing on end, eye-balls glaring, and forehead bathed in perspiration, the murderer sate motionless upon the cold stone bench--afraid even to breathe. Every moment he expected to hear the trap-door at the head of the spiral staircase move: but several minutes elapsed, and his fears in this respect were not accomplished. At length he heard a sound as of a body falling heavily; and then a voice almost close to him fell upon his ear. The reader will remember that the vault in which he was concealed, joined the cellar from whence Walter Sydney had escaped. The officers had entered that cellar by means of the trap-door in the floor of the room immediately above it. Bolter could overhear their entire conversation. "Well, this is a strange crib, this is," said one. "Show the bull's-eye up in that farther corner: there may be a door in one of them dark nooks." "It will jist end as I said it would," exclaimed another: "the feller wouldn't be sich a fool as to come to a place that's knowed to the Force as one of bad repute." "I didn't think, myself, there was much good in coming to search this old crib: but the inspector said _yes_, and so we couldn't say _no_." "Let's be off: the cold of this infernal den strikes to my very bones. But I say--that there shelving board that we first lighted on in getting down, isn't made to help people to come here alive." "Turn the bull's-eye more on it." "Now can you see?"