I have done nothing; my crime is that the condemned man is my brother.
Early this afternoon I left home at Anglebury to tramp it all the
way to Casterbridge gaol to bid him farewell. I was benighted, and
called here to rest and ask the way. When I opened the door I saw
before me the very man, my brother, that I thought to see in the
condemned cell at Casterbridge. He was in this chimney-corner;
and, jammed close to him, so that he could not have got out if he
had tried, was the executioner who'd come to take his life, singing
a song about it, and not knowing that it was his victim who was
close by, joining in to save appearances. My brother looked a
glance of agony at me, and I knew he meant, 'Don't reveal what you
see; my life depends on it.' I was so terror-struck that I could
hardly stand, and, not knowing what I did, I turned and hurried
away."

The narrator's manner and tone had the stamp of truth, and his
story made a great impression on around.

"And do you know where your brother is at the present time?" asked
the magistrate.

"I do not. I have never seen him since I closed this door."

"I can testify to that, for we've been between ye ever since," said
the constable.

Where does he think to fly to? What is his occupation?"

"He's a watch- and clock-maker, sir."