Tom swore he hadn't set eyes on him since the trial. "Surely," he added, staring at Rowland, "either I'm greatly mistaken, or it is—" "You are not mistaken, Baptist," returned Rowland with a gesture of silence; "it is your old friend. In this cell was a huntsman, who had fractured his skull while hunting, and was perpetually hallooing after the hounds;—in that, the most melancholy of all, the grinning gibbering lunatic, the realization of "moody madness, laughing wild. Stanley came home at a quarter to six—an earlier train by fifteen minutes than he affected—his sister met him in the hall with a hushed expression. “It is a hateful story. “You know,” he muttered, “you know quite well that your troubles are far more likely to weigh upon me than my own. Gerald crossed back to the window. Why should I?” “At last,” he murmured, “at last I have found you.
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