oked wonderingly at the livid face, the struggling figure,
impressed in spite of himself. "He's gone mad," he said. "Good Lord! But
he's got nothing to do with it. Can't you take him away?"

"Grandpapa," said Phoebe in his ear, "here it is, your bill; it was _he_
who did it--and it has driven him mad. Look! I give it up to you; and
there he is--that is your work. Now do what you please--"

Trembling, the old man took the paper out of her hand. He gazed
wondering at the other, who somehow moved in his excitement by a sense
that the decisive moment had come, stood still too, his arm half-pulled
out of his coat, his face wild with dread and horror. For a moment they
looked at each other in a common agony, neither the one nor the other
clear enough to understand, but both feeling that some tremendous crisis
had come upon them. "He--done it!" said Tozer appalled and almost
speechless. "_He_ done it!" They all crowded round, a circle of scared
faces. Phoebe alone stood calm. She was the only one who knew the whole,
except the culprit, who understood nothing with that mad confusion in
his eyes. But he was overawed too, and in his very madness recognized
the crisis. He stood still, struggling no longer, with his eyes fixed
upon the homely figure of the old butterman, who stood trembling,
thunderstruck, with that fatal piece of paper in his hand.

Tozer had been mad for revenge two moments before--almost as wild as the
guilty man before him--with a fierce desire to punish and make an
example of the man who had wronged him. But this semi-madness was
arrested by the sight of the other madman before him, and by the
extraordinary shock of this revelation. It took all the strength out of
him. He had not looked up to the clergyman as Cotsdean did, but he had
looked up to the gentleman, his customer, as being upon an elevation
very different from his own, altogether above and beyond him; and the
sight of this superior being, thus humbled, maddened, gazing at him with
wild terror and agony, more eloquent than any supplication, struck poor
old Tozer to the very soul. "God help us all!" he cried out with a
broken, sobbing voice. He was but a vulgar old fellow, mean, it might
be, worldly in his way; but the terrible mystery of human wickedness and
guilt prostrated his common soul with as sharp an anguish of pity and
shame as could have befallen the most heroic. It seized upon him so that
he could say or do nothing more, forcing hot and sa