e of friends, or at his own, playing whist, or reading
Milton's "Allegro" and "Penseroso" to his wife and daughters. On Friday
evening, about eight o'clock, as the Professor was saying good-bye to a
friend on the steps of his house at Cambridge, the three police officers
drove up to the door and asked him to accompany them to the Medical
College. It was proposed, they said, to make a further search there that
evening, and his presence was considered advisable. Webster assented
immediately, put on his boots, his hat and coat, and got into the hired
coach. As they drove towards the city, Webster spoke to the officers
of Parkman's disappearance, and suggested that they should stop at the
house of a lady who, he said, could give them some peculiar information
on that subject. As they entered Boston, he remarked that they were
taking the wrong direction for reaching the college. One of the officers
replied that the driver might be "green," but that he would find his
way to the college in time. At length the coach stopped. One of the
officers alighted, and invited his companions to follow him into the
office of the Leverett Street Jail. They obeyed. The Professor asked
what it all meant; he was informed that he must consider himself
in custody, charged with the murder of Dr. George Parkman. Webster,
somewhat taken aback, desired that word should be sent to his family,
but was dissuaded from his purpose for the time being. He was searched,
and among other articles taken from him was a key some four or five
inches long; it was the missing lavatory key. Whilst one of the officers
withdrew to make out a mittimus, the Professor asked one of the others
if they had found Dr. Parkman. The officer begged him not to question
him. "You might tell me something about it," pleaded Webster. "Where did
they find him? Did they find the whole body? Oh, my children! What will
they do? What will they think of me? Where did you get the information?"
The officers asked him if anybody had access to his apartments but
himself. "Nobody," he replied, "but the porter who makes the fire."
Then, after a pause, he exclaimed: "That villain! I am a ruined man."
He was walking up and down wringing his hands, when one of the officers
saw him put one hand into his waistcoat pocket, and raise it to his
lips. A few moments later the unhappy man was seized with violent
spasms. He was unable to stand, and was laid down in one of the cells.
From this distressing stat