In one group that he
passed he heard several young men discussing the question of which
portions of the negro's body they would prefer for souvenirs. Ellis
shuddered and hastened forward. Whatever was to be done must be done
quickly, or it would be too late. He saw that already it would require a
strong case in favor of the accused to overcome the popular verdict.
Going up the steps of the jail, he met Mr. Delamere, who was just coming
out, after a fruitless interview with Sandy.
"Mr. Ellis," said the old gentleman, who seemed greatly agitated, "this
is monstrous!"
"It is indeed, sir!" returned the younger man. "I mean to stop it if I
can. The negro did not kill Mrs. Ochiltree."
Mr. Delamere looked at Ellis keenly, and, as Ellis recalled afterwards,
there was death in his eyes. Unable to draw a syllable from Sandy, he
had found his servant's silence more eloquent than words. Ellis felt a
presentiment that this affair, however it might terminate, would be
fatal to this fine old man, whom the city could ill spare, in spite of
his age and infirmities.
"Mr. Ellis," asked Mr. Delamere, in a voice which trembled with
ill-suppressed emotion, "do you know who killed her?"
Ellis felt a surging pity for his old friend; but every step that he had
taken toward the jail had confirmed and strengthened his own resolution
that this contemplated crime, which he dimly felt to be far more
atrocious than that of which Sandy was accused, in that it involved a
whole community rather than one vicious man, should be stopped at any
cost.
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