“Strange infatuation! that she should believe you to be—­I will not wrong you by finishing the sentence.”

“She does not at heart believe me guilty—­her mind is in a storm.  She is bound by her oath to act upon the evidence rather than upon her own feelings, and that evidence is much stronger against me, Paul, than you have any idea of.  Come into my study, and I will tell you the whole story.”

And Paul followed him thither.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

UPON CHARGE OF MURDER.

Some hours later in that day Colonel Thornton was sitting, in his capacity of police magistrate, in his office at C——.  The room was occupied by about a dozen persons, men and women, black and white.  He had just got through with one or two petty cases of debt or theft, and had up before him a poor, half-starved “White Herring,” charged with sheep-stealing, when the door opened and a young girl, closely veiled, entered and took a seat in the farthest corner from the crowd.  The case of the poor man was soon disposed of—­the evidence was not positive—­the compassionate magistrate leaned to the side of mercy, and the man was discharged, and went home most probably to dine upon mutton.  This being the last case, the magistrate arose and ordered the room to be cleared of all who had no further business with him.

When the loungers had left the police office the young girl came forward, stood before the magistrate, and raised her veil, revealing the features of Miriam.

“Good-morning, Miss Shields,” said Colonel Thornton; and neither the countenance nor manner of this suave and stately gentleman of the old school revealed the astonishment he really felt on seeing the young lady in such a place.  He arose and courteously placed her a chair, reseated himself, and turned toward her and respectfully awaited her communication.

“Colonel Thornton, you remember Miss Mayfield, and the manner of her death, that made some stir here about seven years ago?”

The face of the old gentleman suddenly grew darkened and slightly convulsed, as the face of the sea when clouds and wind pass over it.

“Yes, young lady, I remember.”

“I have come to denounce her murderer.”

Colonel Thornton took up his pen, and drew toward him a blank form of a writ, and sat looking toward her; and waiting for her further words.

Her bosom heaved, her face worked, her voice was choked and unnatural, as she said: 

“You will please to issue a warrant for the arrest of Thurston Willcoxen.”

Colonel Thornton laid down his pen, arose from his seat, and took her hand and gazed upon her with an expression of blended surprise and compassion.

“My dear young lady, you are not very well.  May I inquire—­are your friends in town, or are you here alone?”

“I am here alone.  Nay, I am not mad, Colonel Thornton, although your looks betray that you think me so.”