Such was the aspect under which the place presented itself to Sheriff Adams and two other men who had come out from Marshall to look at it.  One of these men was Mr. King, the sheriff’s deputy; the other, whose name was Brewer, was a brother of the late Mrs. Manton.  Under a beneficent law of the State relating to property which has been for a certain period abandoned by an owner whose residence cannot be ascertained, the sheriff was legal custodian of the Manton farm and appurtenances thereunto belonging.  His present visit was in mere perfunctory compliance with some order of a court in which Mr. Brewer had an action to get possession of the property as heir to his deceased sister.  By a mere coincidence, the visit was made on the day after the night that Deputy King had unlocked the house for another and very different purpose.  His presence now was not of his own choosing:  he had been ordered to accompany his superior and at the moment could think of nothing more prudent than simulated alacrity in obedience to the command.

Carelessly opening the front door, which to his surprise was not locked, the sheriff was amazed to see, lying on the floor of the passage into which it opened, a confused heap of men’s apparel.  Examination showed it to consist of two hats, and the same number of coats, waistcoats and scarves, all in a remarkably good state of preservation, albeit somewhat defiled by the dust in which they lay.  Mr. Brewer was equally astonished, but Mr. King’s emotion is not of record.  With a new and lively interest in his own actions the sheriff now unlatched and pushed open a door on the right, and the three entered.  The room was apparently vacant—­no; as their eyes became accustomed to the dimmer light something was visible in the farthest angle of the wall.  It was a human figure—­that of a man crouching close in the corner.  Something in the attitude made the intruders halt when they had barely passed the threshold.  The figure more and more clearly defined itself.  The man was upon one knee, his back in the angle of the wall, his shoulders elevated to the level of his ears, his hands before his face, palms outward, the fingers spread and crooked like claws; the white face turned upward on the retracted neck had an expression of unutterable fright, the mouth half open, the eyes incredibly expanded.  He was stone dead.  Yet, with the exception of a bowie-knife, which had evidently fallen from his own hand, not another object was in the room.

In thick dust that covered the floor were some confused footprints near the door and along the wall through which it opened.  Along one of the adjoining walls, too, past the boarded-up windows, was the trail made by the man himself in reaching his corner.  Instinctively in approaching the body the three men followed that trail.  The sheriff grasped one of the outthrown arms; it was as rigid as iron, and the application of a gentle force rocked the entire body without altering the relation of its parts.  Brewer, pale with excitement, gazed intently into the distorted face.  “God of mercy!” he suddenly cried, “it is Manton!”