had some human feeling left, unable to resist her tears and
entreaties, had let her in unannounced, as mentioned in the last chapter.
She had left the cell abruptly, had hurried off, and had never returned.
'God help the poor child!' exclaimed the man, as he told the story. 'Such
hearts as hers were made for heaven, not for this world. I have a daughter
of her age; and even if she had robbed a church, I couldn't have treated
her as that man treated his child.'

The man looked at Kornicker, as if to observe the effect of his last
remark; but probably that gentleman viewed the robbing of a church in a
less heinous light than the jailer, for he made no comment on it, but
after a pause said:

'So that's all you know?'

The man nodded.

'Good morning to you, Sir,' said Kornicker; and he walked straight out of
the building, and had crossed several streets before he had made up his
mind what to do next. This however was soon settled, and he buttoned his
coat tightly, pulled his hat firmly on his head, drew on a pair of shabby
gloves, and performed a number of those little acts which in ancient times
were known under the head of 'girding up the loins,' preparatory to
setting out to his next point of destination, which was the girl's former
home, the place where Rust had committed the murder. It was many miles
off; and the distance which Rust, under the whip and spur of fierce
passions, had traversed without trace of fatigue, drew from his clerk many
a sigh, and many an expression of weariness.

When he got there he found the house deserted. He entered it, for there
was no one there to hinder it, but the rooms were empty and dismantled.
The house had been hired by Rust, and no sooner was he in the gripe of the
law, than creditors innumerable, who like birds of prey were biding their
time, kept in check by the unbending character of their debtor, came
flitting in from every quarter; seized and sold the furniture, and left
the house desolate. A single dark stain upon the library floor, where the
murdered man had fallen, was all that was left to tell a tale of the past.
The dust had gathered thickly on the walls, as if preparing to commence a
slumber of years; and as Kornicker went out, the rats raced through the
hall, startled at the tread of a stranger.

With a heart as heavy as his limbs, as he thought of the past life of the
girl who had once tenanted this house, and then fancied what her present
fate must be, Kornicker s