.

It is foolish, I suppose, to let my mind dwell on this "case," but I
cannot get away from it and it calms me to "talk" with you in this way
and to feel your quiet sympathy. I could not sit idle in this gloomy
room--fearful to me now, and full of shadows. I should go mad.--I am a
cheerful counsellor--am I not?

It was in the early evening of May tenth, a year ago, that Warren passed
through Washington Square with Fantine at his heels. As they crossed the
plaza on the north, a two-horse hack suddenly wheeled through the Arch
on the wrong side of the road, narrowly missing the man and dog. Enraged
at having to check his team, the driver, a burly Irishman named Dineen,
snatched up his whip and, cursing fiercely, struck the dog with all his
might. The lash wound itself about her head and flicked out one of
Fantine's eyes. With a howl she ran a few rods down the Square and then
crouched in the roadway, rubbing her bloody eye between her paws.

In an instant Warren was at the horses' heads and the hack stopped.

"Let go them horses--Let them go, I tell you! Ye won't, ye scum?--Then
take that and that!"

The lash fell twice on the horses' backs and Warren was thrown to the
ground, but still kept his grip upon the reins. Then the whip cut him in
the face, his hold loosened, and the team plunged forward, the driver
guiding straight for the spot where Fantine lay. An instant more and
the iron hoofs had trampled her down and the wheels of the carriage had
crushed out her life.

Dineen shook the reins over the flying horses and shouted as he turned
on his seat,

"Now pick up yur dirty cur--you loafin' scut you!"

But his victim leaping and bounding alongside the thundering carriage
made no answer, and the laugh the fellow started was never finished, for
two strong hands gripped his throat as Warren swung up beside him.
Literally torn from his seat by the shock, the reins flew from the
driver's hands and the frightened team became a runaway. For a moment
the two men, locked in deadly grapple, were struggling on the box. In
another instant they were over the dashboard swaying to right and left
above the wheels, until at last they crashed back upon the roof of the
carriage rolling horribly to the fearful lurching of the wheels. One
moment Warren was on top--another moment he was under. Then suddenly the
wheels of the hack struck a curb and the dark mass was hurled from the
roof to the ground with a sickening thud. There was