As Jerome opened the door, to learn, if possible, the cause of the
cries and groans, he could distinguish the words, "She's dead!
yes, she's dead! but I did not kill her. She was my child! my own
daughter. I loved her, and yet I did not protect her."
"Whoever he is," said Jerome, "he's crack-brained; some robber,
probably, from the mountains."
The storm continued to rage, and the loud peals of thunder and
sharp flashes of lightening, together with the shrieks and moans
of the maniac in the adjoining room, made the night a fearful one.
The long hours wore slowly away, but neither Jerome nor his wife
could sleep, and they arose at an early hour in the morning,
ordered breakfast, and resolved to return to Geneva.
"I am sorry, sir, that you were so much disturbed by the sick man
last night," said the landlord, as he handed Jerome his bill. "I
should be glad if he would get able to go away, or die, for he's a
deal of trouble to me. Several persons have left my house on his
account."
"Where is he from?" inquired Jerome.
"He's from the United States, and has been here a week to-day, and
has been crazy ever since."
"Has he no friends with him?" asked the guest.
"No, he is alone," was the reply.
Jerome related to his wife what he had learned from the landlord,
respecting the sick man, and the intelligence impressed her so
strongly, that she requested him to make further inquiries
concerning the stranger.
He therefore consulted the book in which guests usually register
their names, and, to his great surprise, found that the American's
name was Henry Linwood, and that he was from Richmond, Va.
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