“Long Bridge is not a favourite spot at night, and, knowing that in all probability an hour might elapse before assistance would arrive in the shape of another passer-by, he decided to carry his story straight to Claymore Tavern.  Afterwards he was heard to declare that it was fortunate his horses were headed that way instead of the other, or he might have missed seeing the skulking figure which slipped down into the ravine as he made the turn at the far end of the bridge—­a figure which had no other response to his loud ‘Hola!’ than a short cough, hurriedly choked back.  He could not see the face or identify the figure, but he knew the cough.  He had heard it a hundred times; and, saying to himself, ’I’ll find fellers enough at the tavern, but there’s one I won’t find there and that’s John Scoville,’ he whipped his horse up the hill and took the road to Claymore.

“And he was right.  A dozen fellows started up at his call, but Scoville was not among them.  He had been out for two hours; which the carter having heard, he looked down, but said nothing except ‘Come along, boys!  I’ll drive you to the turn of the bridge.’

“But just as they were starting Scoville appeared.  He was hatless and dishevelled and reeled heavily with liquor.  He also tried to smile, which made the carter lean quickly down and with very little ceremony drag him up into the cart.  So with Scoville amongst them they rode quickly back to the bridge, the landlord coughing, the men all grimly silent.

“In crossing the bridge he made more than one effort to escape, but the men were determined, and when they finally stooped over the man lying in Dark Hollow, he was in their midst and was forced to stoop also.

“One flash of the lantern told the dismal tale.  The man was not only dead, but murdered.  His forehead had been battered in with a knotted stick; all his pockets hung out empty; and from the general disorder of his dress it was evident that his watch had been torn away by a ruthless hand.  But the face they failed to recognise till some people, running down from the upper town where the alarm had by this time spread, sent up the shout of ’It’s Mr. Etheridge!  Judge Ostrander’s great friend.  Let some one run and notify the judge.’

“But the fact was settled long before the judge came upon the scene, and another fact too.  In beating the bushes, they had lighted on a heavy stick.  When it was brought forward and held under the strong light made by a circle of lanterns, a big movement took place in the crowd.  The stick had been recognised.  Indeed, it was well known to all the Claymore men.  They had seen it in Scoville’s hands a dozen times.  Even he could not deny its ownership; explaining, or trying to, that he had been in the ravine looking for this stick only a little while before, and adding, as he met their eyes: 

“’I lost it in these woods this afternoon.  I hadn’t anything to do with this killing.’