first drowsy wagoner who might pass along the thoroughfare, I stooped to
rouse and to lift the form. What was my horror when my eyes met the rigid
stare of a dead man's. I started, looked again; it was the face of Sir
Philip Derval! He was lying on his back, the countenance upturned, a dark
stream oozing from the breast,--murdered by two ghastly wounds, murdered
not long since, the blood was still warm. Stunned and terror-stricken, I
stood bending over the body. Suddenly I was touched on the shoulder.

"Hollo! what is this?" said a gruff voice.

"Murder!" I answered in hollow accents, which sounded strangely to my own
ear.

"Murder! so it seems." And the policeman who had thus accosted me lifted
the body.

"A gentleman by his dress. How did this happen? How did you come here?"
and the policeman glanced suspiciously at me.

At this moment, however, there came up another policeman, in whom I
recognized the young man whose sister I had attended and cured.

"Dr. Fenwick," said the last, lifting his hat respectfully, and at the
sound of my name his fellow-policeman changed his manner and muttered an
apology.

I now collected myself sufficiently to state the name and rank of the
murdered man. The policemen bore the body to their station, to which I
accompanied them. I then returned to my own house, and had scarcely sunk
on my bed when sleep came over me. But what a sleep! Never till then had