But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. When the turnkey, next morning, stepp'd into his room, The sight of the hole in the wall struck him dumb; The sheriff's black bracelets lay strewn on the ground, But the lad that had worn 'em could nowhere be found. Even her memories of he who had frequented her life for the longest period of years were worn and fading. " "At Tyburn, eh, Mr. You have not forgotten——” “I have forgotten nothing?” he answered, enigmatically. ” She gazed at him.
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