I did not--could not--return home. I have an indistinct
recollection of walking swiftly up and down the deserted streets and far
out into the country. Daylight found me several miles from the town;
hatless, wild-eyed, a sorry spectacle, at whom one or two farmers, on
their way to early market, gazed in amazement. When I turned back, the
sun was high in the heavens. I went again to Doctor Matthai's. A crowd
stood about the door. I was rudely seized and placed under arrest,
charged--oh, my God!--with the murder of Doctor Matthai! The shockingly
mutilated body had just been found in the hallway of the old house in
Queen Anne Street! * * * I am innocent, innocent! Weeks--they seem
centuries--pass, and I yet await trial. * * *
* * * * *
"George Delwyn Ploat, the writer of the above remarkable story, was
hanged in the jailyard at A---- for the wilful and brutal murder of
Doctor Ambrose Matthai, a retired practitioner of that place. The plea
of insanity, so strongly urged by the prisoner's counsel, proved
unavailing, and the condemned man paid the penalty for his crime on
Friday morning last."
* * * * *
"You know what a story like that demands, I suppose," said Colonel
Manysnifters, reaching for the button; "and as I seem to be the
self-appointed chairman here, I will now call upon the gentleman from
Michigan for a few remarks.
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