If
      I live a thousand years, I can never forget the more than mortal agony
      which was depicted in that ghastly face of his, so lately rubicund with
      triumph and wine. For several minutes he sat rigidly as a statue of
      marble; his eyes seeming, in the intense vacancy of their gaze, to be
      turned inward and absorbed in the contemplation of his own miserable,
      murderous soul. At length their expression appeared to flash suddenly out
      into the external world, when, with a quick leap, he sprang from his
      chair, and falling heavily with his head and shoulders upon the table, and
      in contact with the corpse, poured out rapidly and vehemently a detailed
      confession of the hideous crime for which Mr. Pennifeather was then
      imprisoned and doomed to die. What he recounted was in substance this:—He followed his victim to
      the vicinity of the pool; there shot his horse with a pistol; despatched
      its rider with the butt end; possessed himself of the pocket-book; and,
      supposing the horse dead, dragged it with great labour to the brambles by
      the pond. Upon his own beast he slung the corpse of Mr. Shuttleworthy, and
      thus bore it to a secure place of concealment a long distance off through
      the woods. The waistcoat, the knife, the pocket-book, and bullet, had been placed by
      himself where found, with the view of avenging himself upon Mr.
      Pennifeather. He had also contrived the discovery of the stained
      handkerchief and shirt. Toward the end of the blood-chilling recital the words of the guilty
      wretch faltered and grew hollow. When the record was finally exhausted, he
      arose, staggered backward from the table, and fell—_dead_. The means by which this happily-timed confession was extorted, although
      efficient, were simple indeed. Mr. Goodfellow’s excess of frankness had
      disgusted me, and excited my suspicions from the first. I was present when
      Mr. Pennifeather had struck him, and the fiendish expression which then
      arose upon his countenance, although momentary, assured me that his threat
      of vengeance would, if possible, be rigidly fulfilled. I was thus prepared
      to view the manoeuvering of “Old Charley” in a very different light from
      that in which it was regarded by the good citizens of Rattleborough. I saw
      at once that all the criminating discoveries arose, either directly or
      indirectly, from himself. But the fact which clearly opened my eyes to the
      true state of the case, was the affair of the bullet, found by Mr. G. in
      the carcass of the horse. I had not forgotten, although the Rattleburghers
      had, that there was a hole where the ball had entered the horse, and
      another where it went out. If it were found in the animal then, after
      having made its exit, I saw clearly that it must have been deposited by
      the person who found it. The bloody shirt and handkerchief confirmed the
      idea suggested by the bullet; for the blood on examination proved to be
      capital claret, and no more. When I came to think of these things, and
      also of the late increase of liberality and expenditure on the part of Mr.
      Goodfellow, I entertained a suspicion which was none the less strong
      because I kept it altogether to myself. In the meantime, I instituted a rigorous private search for the corpse of
      Mr. Shuttleworthy, and, for good reasons, searched in quarters as
      divergent as possible from those to which Mr. Goodfellow conducted his
      party. The result was that, after some days, I came across an old dry
      well, the mouth of which was nearly hidden by brambles; and here, at the
      bottom, I discovered what I sought. Now it so happened that I had overheard the colloquy between the two
      cronies, when Mr. Goodfellow had contrived to cajole his host into the
      promise of a box of Chateaux-Margaux. Upon this hint I acted. I procured a
      stiff piece of whalebone, thrust it down the throat of the corpse, and
      deposited the latter in an old wine box—taking care so to double the body
      up as to double the whalebone with it. In this manner I had to press
      forcibly upon the lid to keep it down while I secured it with nails; and I
      anticipated, of course, that as soon as these latter were removed, the top
      would fly off and the body up. Having thus arranged the box, I marked, numbered, and addressed it as
      already told; and then writing a letter in the name of the wine merchants
      with whom Mr. Shuttleworthy dealt, I gave instructions to my servant to
      wheel the box to Mr. Goodfellow’s door, in a barrow, at a given signal
      from myself. For the words which I intended the corpse to speak, I
      confidently depended upon my ventriloquial abilities; for their effect, I
      counted upon the conscience of the murderous wretch. I believe there is nothing more to be explained. Mr. Pennifeather was
      released upon the spot, inherited the fortune of his uncle, profited by
      the lessons of experience, turned over a new leaf, and led happily ever
      afterward a new life. WHY THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN WEARS HIS HAND IN A SLING


      It’s on my visiting cards sure enough (and it’s them that’s all o’ pink
      satin paper) that inny gintleman that plases may behould the intheristhin’
      words, “Sir Pathrick O’Grandison, Barronitt, 39 Southampton Row, Russell
      Square, Parrish o’ Bloomsbury.” And shud ye be wantin’ to diskiver who is
      the pink of purliteness quite, and the laider of the hot tun in the houl
      city o’ Lonon—why it’s jist mesilf. And fait that same is no wonder
      at all at all (so be plased to stop curlin’ your nose), for every inch o’
      the six wakes that I’ve been a gintleman, and left aff wid the
      bog-throthing to take up wid the Barronissy, it’s Pathrick that’s been
      living like a houly imperor, and gitting the iddication and the graces. Och! and wouldn’t it be a blessed thing for your spirrits if ye cud lay
      your two peepers jist, upon Sir Pathrick O’Grandison, Barronitt, when he
      is all riddy drissed for the hopperer, or stipping into the Brisky for the
      drive into the Hyde Park. But it’s the illigant big figgur that I ’ave, for
      the rason o’ which all the ladies fall in love wid me. Isn’t it my own
      swate silf now that’ll missure the six fut, and the three inches more nor
      that, in me stockins, and that am excadingly will proportioned all over to
      match? And it is ralelly more than three fut and a bit that there is, inny
      how, of the little ould furrener Frinchman that lives jist over the way,
      and that’s a-oggling and a-goggling the houl day, (and bad luck to him,)
      at the purty widdy Misthress Tracle that’s my own nixt-door neighbor, (God
      bliss her!) and a most particuller frind and acquaintance?