Bowen was fumbling among some papers on his table. He folded two of
them and put them in his inside pocket. Then he spoke:

"There will be a newspaper man here in a few moments with a good deal
of copy to telegraph. Rush it off as fast as you can and I'll be back
to help before you are tired."

As Bowen walked towards the gaol he met the scattered group of those
who had been privileged to see the execution. They were discussing
capital punishment, and some were yawningly complaining about the
unearthly hour chosen for the function they had just beheld. Between
the outside gate and the gaol door Bowen met the sheriff, who was
looking ghastly and sallow in the fresh morning light.

"I have come to give myself up," said Bowen, before the official could
greet him.

"To give yourself up? What for?"

"For murder, I suppose."

"This is no time for joking, young man," said the sheriff, severely.

"Do I look like a humourist? Read that."

First incredulity, then horror, overspread the haggard face of the
sheriff as he read and re-read the dispatch. He staggered back against
the wall, putting up his arm to keep himself from falling.

"Bowen," he gasped: "Do you--do you mean to--to tell me--that this