well as his wife, was deadly pale, and trembling violently, either with
cold or agitation, hesitatingly consented, and crowbars being speedily
procured, an entrance was forced, and in rushed a score of excited men.
Armstrong's wife, it was afterwards remembered, caught hold of her
husband's arm in a hurried, frightened manner, whispered hastily in his
ear, and then both followed into the house.

"Now, farmer," cried Johnson, as soon as he had procured a light, "lead
the way up stairs."

Armstrong, who appeared to have somewhat recovered from his panic, darted
at once up the staircase, followed by the whole body of rustics. On
reaching the landing-place, he knocked at Mr. Wilson's bedroom door. No
answer was returned. Armstrong seemed to hesitate, but the constable at
once lifted the latch; they entered, and then a melancholy spectacle
presented itself.

Wilson, completely dressed, lay extended on the floor a lifeless corpse.
He had been stabbed in two places in the breast with some sharp-pointed
instrument. Life was quite extinct. The window was open. On farther
inspection, several bundles containing many of Wilson's valuables in
jewelry and plate, together with clothes, shirts, silk handkerchiefs,
were found. The wardrobe and a secretary-bureau had been forced open.
The assassins had, it seemed, been disturbed, and had hurried off by the
window without their plunder. A hat was also picked up in the room, a
shiny, black hat, much too small for the deceased. The constable snatched
it up, and attempted to clap it on Armstrong's head, but it was not
nearly large enough. This, together with the bundles, dissipated a
suspicion which had been growing in Johnson's mind, and he roughly
exclaimed, "You need not look so scared, farmer; it's not you: that's