“A young and beautiful quadroon girl named Duncan, and residing in Jamaica, West Indies, was murdered in a retired spot _a few paces from the public highway_. [Such was the case in the murder of Isabella Joyce.] Upon discovery of the deed, and investigation by the coroner, a reward, amounting to a large sum of money [similar in the Joyce case], was offered for the detection of the guilty party, but without avail. A year passed over with no light from the judicial lantern illumining the black mystery of the deed, and the case was in process of lapsing into oblivion, when two negroes named Pendrill and Chitty were arrested for some minor thefts and lodged in prison. One was placed in the Kingston penitentiary and the other in Falmouth jail. The distance between these two places was eighty miles. It must be borne in mind that these two men were ignorant of their mutual arrest and confinement, though as it turned out afterward were well acquainted with each other. In the course of their imprisonment they became restless and talked in their sleep, and then conversations were addressed to a young girl who, it would seem, stood by and upbraided them with her murder. They would then entreat her to go away. This happened so frequently as to lead to inquiries which resulted in the conviction of those two haunted men, of the murder that had so long baffled the detection of justice. XV. THE CHILDREN. In a court of justice, if I was put upon my oath, I could not swear that it was a ghost that I saw when I stood at the end of the garden on that luminous night; nor would I swear that it was a man with his vitality in force; but I would swear that I saw something that looked like a man, but might have been a ghost. It acted as if it might have been either,—but if a man, like a crazy one, and who had a charm to subdue, upon the instant and without effort, the temper of two severe watch-dogs, one a mastiff, the other a bull, and also to suspend for more than a second my power of vision. After I had finished writing my narrative, and thought that I had nothing further to do in this business besides giving my manuscript into the hands of the printer, I became possessed of two photographs kindly lent to my curiosity by the chief of police. They are the portraits of Isabella and John Joyce. My first idea was to have them multiplied and affixed somewhere in my pages, but then I thought of the illustrated papers with their abominable attempts to illustrate by the pencil every spasm to which human nature is incident, and was stopped at once from that design.