found friend.

"Agreed," said the man, eagerly, and turning at once toward the nearest
clump of trees.

"I may as well say that my name is Smith," said the stranger, as he
passed over his brandy flask. "Now then, pard, fire ahead, and don't
forget when you get thirsty to notify Smith, the book peddler."

The man began his story, and the book peddler stood with ear attentive
to the tale, and eye fixed upon Jasper Lamotte.

CHAPTER XXIX.

OPENLY ACCUSED.

It is three o'clock. The rain has ceased falling, but the sky is still
gray and threatening. The wind howls dismally among the old trees that
surround John Burrill's shallow grave, and its weird wail, combined with
the rattle and creak of the branches, and the drip, drip of water,
dropping from the many crevices into the old cellar, unite to form a
fitting requiem for an occasion so strange, so uncanny.

Down in the cellar, standing ankle deep in the mud and slime, are the
"good men and true," who have been summoned by Justice, to decide upon
the manner in which John Burrill met his death. There, too, is the
mayor, dignified, grave, and important. The officers of the law are
there, and close behind the coroner stand the Lamottes, father and son.
A little farther back are grouped the witnesses. Those of the morning,
the two masons, Mr. O'Meara, Dr. Heath,--they are all there except the
first and surest one, Prince. There are the men who were Burrill's
companions of the night before, reluctant witnesses, ferreted out
through the officiousness of one of the saloon habitues, and fearing, a
little, to relate their part in the evening's programme, each eager to
lighten his own burden of the responsibility at the expense of his
comrades in the plot. There are three women and one man, all
eye-witnesses to the first meeting between John Burrill and Doctor Heath
in Nance Burrill's cottage, and there is Nance Burrill herself. The
women stand a little aloof, upon a few boards that have been thrown
carelessly down for their comfort. And Nance Burrill talks loudly, and
cries as bitterly as if the dead man had been her life's comfort, not
its curse.

And there, too, is Raymond Vandyck. He stands aloof from them all,
stands near the ghastly thing that once, not long ago, came between him
and all his happiness. There is a strange look in his blue eyes, as they
rest upon the lifeless form, from which the coverings have been removed,
but which still lies in the shallow pl