Northern Weekly Gazette. — 1907-01-19 (Stockton-on-Tees, Cleveland, England)

CHAPTER V.  Outside in the sleet and rain, facing the angry, piercing north-east winds, Wilfred Hayward stood fn.: a moment, as • though undecided which way to turn. At length he staggered down the dreary short street in a direction that would take him across a wide expanse of moorland, leaving the village behind him. His thoughts wandered from the scene at "Radcliffe" house to the conversation in the bar-room. "My God!" he groaned, "can it be uossible that I killed Walton in my  SAMETIST 19, ISM  mad rage? Am I. indeed, a murderer? Ohl ;,not that; the thought will drive me mad, mad,  mad."  He hurried on casting furtive glances behii4 him as though 'being pursued by some unseen foe. The wind howled and kissed like numberless demons screeching out their maledictions. He cculd see the face of Jack Walton,,gasping and.a hand (hitching his throat.. He looked at his hands, there was blood on them, blood seemed on all sides, voices called his name, and demanded justice. He hurried on, faster and still faster, as though be would escape their vengeance, but still they teemed to follow him, their yells becoming more tierce, their numbers increasing; faster and faster he went, great beads of perspiraation hung out upon his forehead. On, on he ran, followed by his hideous screams of his pursuers: he could not escape them; his brain seemed on fire.  Murderer, murderer, rang out on every side; justice, justice, they yelled. The face of Jack Walton peered into his own as he ran; there was blood pcnring from his mouth and nostrils. He closed his eyes to shut out the hideous spectacle; but no, the face of Jack Walton was still there.  He struggled on towards a clump of bushes hail a mile in the distance, there he might escape his tormentors. Almost exhausted he reached the edge of the brushwood, and crawled beneath; but he could feel the long, thin, talon-like fingers of his pursuers clutching at his throat and choking him. He struggled to free himself, untal finally overcame he sank exhausted, and all was oblivion.  • •  Wilfred Hayward rose from the couch, his faca bathed in a cold, clammy perspiration; The fire W&8 out, and the library cold and cheerless. He gazed round the room; he could not realise whether he was awake or still dreaming, pushing the hair back from his forehead he put his hand to his throat.  He could still feel the clutch of some tuaseen. foe. He conk' still hear their fiendish screams. He rang for the servant, who came and turned up the lights. "How long have I slept?" he asked. "I do not know exactly, sir; but it must ha several hours." "What time is it now r "About 10.25, sir." "Has anyone called?"  "Yea, air, Mr Walton called about 9.30, Latt said it would be better to let you sleep. Ha would not hear of ink waking You." Wilfred was silent for a moment. "Very be said, "you may go."  The servant withdrew, and Hayward rose and paced the room again. He saw the letters strewn. about just as they had been left a few short hours ago. The truth dawns upon me, he groaned, while the hot, blinding tears filled his eyes; the warning has come in a dream. "Ohl God," he cried, is it too late, or can I profit-by it, even at the eleventh hour."