exclaimed. "Where is George Gordon? I am sure he was here. Did you see him, Andrews?"
No one answered, and seeing that we were all looking at him in amazement, he sprang to his feet, exclaiming:
"I deny the charge you have made against me; it is false in every particular."
"Then, Mr. Drysdale," said I, "you will probably deny that you buried the gold, which was taken from this bank, in the bed of Rocky Creek. Here it is," I added, uncovering the box, which had been placed near by.
He said nothing, but hung his head, and drew a long breath.
"Will you also deny that you buried the paper money in a grove near your house, on your plantation?" I continued, showing him the candle box.
He still said nothing, and I made a motion to Andrews to have Green ready for a re-appearance. Then I went on speaking.
"This money has all been identified as that which was stolen from the bank; it was found as I have stated. I also have here a partly burned note of yours, which you used to light the fire in the grate. I have examined these fragments of buttons, and I find that they are exactly like those on the coat which you brought home from New Orleans just before the murder; they were found in the grate yonder, where you burned your coat, but there is enough left of them to identify them. But if you are not satisfied with this evidence, that we can prove you are guilty, I will even call upon the murdered man himself, to testify against you."
As I spoke, Green slowly glided out toward us, with his white, set face, and bloody hair. Drysdale covered his face with his hands, dropped into a chair and shrieked:
"Oh! my God! I am guilty! I am guilty!" and he sank back, but did not faint.
Green instantly retired, whence he came, and Drysdale continued speaking, as if he obtained relief by confessing his crime.
"Yes, I am guilty, and I have suffered the tortures of the damned since that frightful night. I do not know what made me do it, but I have never known a moment's peace since then. My mind has been occupied with that money constantly, and even in my sleep I would dream about it. Oh! it is terrible!"
"Have you ever gone to look for it at night, Mr. Drysdale?" I asked, as I wished to know whether he was aware of his somnambulism.
"Oh, no; I would not dare to go near it, but it has haunted me always."
"How did you come to murder George?" I asked.
"I can't tell," he replied, in a choking voice; "it all occurred like a dream."
"What motive did you have? You surely could have got money without resorting to robbery, much less murder."
"No, I could not. People think I am wealthy, but the fact is I lost a great deal of money in speculating when I went to New Orleans, a few months before the murder, and although I have a good deal of property, I had no ready money, and I could not work my plantation properly for want of it. I had purchased seven slaves from a man in New Orleans, and I could not pay for them. He was pressing me for the money, about twelve hundred dollars, and I came down to the bank to get the money from George. I had only three hundred dollars in bank, and so I gave my note for the remainder. While George was counting out the money, I was taken with a sort of insanity, and I struck him with a large hammer which happened to be at hand. Then I carried off the money and buried it, since which time I have never touched it. It has been a curse to me. This is all I have to say now."
I turned to Mr. Bannatine and said:
"I have now done all that I can do in this matter, I think."
"Yes, you have completed your task, and the law must now take its course," he replied. "Mr. Ringwood, you had better take charge of Mr. Drysdale."
Drysdale rose from his chair, wearily, and said:
"I am glad the end has come at last. This affair has been killing me by inches, and I am glad I have confessed."
The sheriff then touched him on the shoulder and said that he must go.
"Yes, I am ready," he replied, "but please let me speak a few words privately, to Mr. Andrews; I want to send a message to my wife," he added, with a sob.
He and Andrews then stepped into the small private office, and Andrews closed the door behind him.
"Andrews, my friend," said Drysdale, convulsively, "I beg you to break this news to my poor wife. God help her and the children. Tell her that I feel better for having confessed, and whatever happens she must keep up her courage. Now, my dear friend, good bye. Tell the sheriff to come here and take me to jail."
He wrung Andrews' hand warmly as the latter stepped to the door, but before the latter had reached us, we heard the ringing report of a pistol shot. We made a simultaneous rush for the little room, but we were too late. There, quivering on the floor, with a bullet in his brain, lay the murderer of George Gordon. The crime and the avengement had occurred in the same building, only a few feet separating the spot where the two bodies had fallen. The somnambulist had walked on earth for the last time.
THE END.
The Murderer and the Fortune Teller
CHAPTER I.
One sultry day in the summer of 185-, I arrived in Chicago, from a tour I had been making through the Southern States. I had attended to a portion of the accumulated business which I found awaiting me, when a gentleman entered the outer office and asked one of my clerks whether he could see me immediately on some very important business. Mr. Howard saw by the gentleman's appearance, that the matter must
