"Murder! Murder!" A terrible and unprecedented cry in this old,
God-fearing town. Then came in hoarse explanation from the
jostling group as they stopped at the gate: "Mrs. Webb has been
killed! Stabbed with a knife! Tell Mr. Sutherland!"

Mrs. Webb!

As the musicians heard this name, so honoured and so universally
beloved, they to a man uttered a cry. Mrs. Webb! Why, it was
impossible. Shouting in their turn for Mr. Sutherland, they all
crowded forward.

"Not Mrs. Webb!" they protested. "Who could have the daring or the
heart to kill HER?"

"God knows," answered a voice from the highway. "But she's dead--
we've just seen her!"

"Then it's the old man's work," quavered a piping voice. "I've
always said he would turn on his best friend some day. 'Sylum's
the best place for folks as has lost their wits. I--"

But here a hand was put over his mouth, and the rest of the words
was lost in an inarticulate gurgle. Mr. Sutherland had just
appeared on the porch.

He was a superb-looking man, with an expression of mingled
kindness and dignity that invariably awakened both awe and
admiration in the spectator. No man in the country--I was going to