He gave a sharp scream and bound
ed to his feet, but his eyes glared on
the red letters.
“Thomas!” lie shrieked,” what is
that on the pillow?”
“On the pillow, sir,” says I, “why,
nothing, to be sure.”
“But there is, man I tell you I see
letters in blood written there.”
“O! no, sir,” I returned, looking at
the place, and indeed, as we both
garni at the writing it faded quite
away. He passed his hand across his
eyes and looked again, fearfully, and
then with a groan, said:
“You are right. Thomas, there is
nothing. I fear lam very nervous.”
That night, when at a late hour, I
passed his room on the way to my
own, 1 heard pitiul moaning and deep
groans from Mr. Warfield’s room, and
to tell the truth, rny heart was sore
for him. Bat, Lord hless you! the
detective police can’t afford to encour
age such feelings, for if they did, the
guilty ones would often go free
oftener even than they do. So I
hardened my heart, and says I to my
self, “I must keep it up, and either
this man will gu mad, orelse fear and
remorse vill drive him to confes
sion.”
Next morning the laundress gave
me some linen handkerchiefs to carry
to Mr. Warfield. I wrote across the
upper one. “W. R. Luring,” and gave
it to him while the color was fresh.
He read it and gave me an awful
look.
“What do you moan? I asked,
looking at him, while lie kept his
eyes away and held the handkerchief
from him, as if he was afraid it would
blind him.
“Who gave you this handkerchief?”
he asked sternly.
