“I will cut his boots open, and secure the notes,” said he. Lantern in hand, he re-entered the room where the lifeless body lay. His eyes almost darted from their sockets at the sight he then saw. Each hair on his head stood on end; he trembled in every limb. His very marrow was frozen at the awful spectacle before him. The body was legless! Each leg had been disjointed just above the knee! The limbs were gone! “How could this happen?” mused the guilty man, trembling from head to foot. Just at that moment he heard loud laughter outside in the garden—laughter not like that of men, but of demons. He rushed to the window, and saw below the hideous forms of a dozen skeleton men, dancing and shouting in wild delight. “Some of the Skeleton Crew!” he gasped, placing his hands before his face to shut out the horrid sight. On the instant they vanished in the darkness, with loud shouts of mockery, like things of air! Almost struck dumb with astonishment, he stood there, as if transfixed to the spot. A gust of wind blew out his lamp. In the dreadful darkness he heard the heavy footfalls of a man descending the stairs with slow and solemn step, while a voice, exactly like Farmer Bertram’s, was heard repeating in sepulchral tones in the hall below— “My footsteps shall follow you, Phillip Redgill, for ever!” “Phillip Redgill,” gasped the murderer, “that is _my_ name! Oh, God! it is the farmer’s voice, and yet he is here, lifeless and legless! Hark, what steps are those I hear? who could have limbed him thus?” While Bolton (or Phillip Redgill, as the spirit voice now properly called him) stood trembling thus, the ghostly voice said loudly again— “Phillip Redgill, beware! my footsteps shall follow you for ever!” Dropping the blood-stained bludgeon beside the body, Phillip Redgill rushed from the room, dashed down stairs, opened the back door, and ran towards the orchard. He mounted his horse, and was about to start off at a furious gallop, when he gave a sharp, horror-stricken shout at something he saw. The gory legs of the farmer stood bolt upright in the snow beside him! “Phillip Redgill, I follow you.” The murderer plunged spurs into his steed, and dashed from the spot with the swiftness of the wind. He perceived Bob Bertram at some distance, who was approaching his father’s house. It was as much as he could do to control his feelings; but he said to Bob, “I have soon returned, you see.” “Yes, ye haven’t been long.” “No, and I have been so successful that I wish to be generous to all I meet to-night, and, if you are not too proud, I’ll begin with you.” “How so, sir?” said Bob. “You complained when last we spoke that you wanted good clothes in order to make a respectable appearance?” “I did. What of that?” “Why, I am a rich man and you poor. I’ll exchange clothes with you, and give you a purse full of money to start you a-fresh in life. What say you? I have taken a particular fancy to you, and like you.”