Chapter VI. Home Again.

Dillon looked at the time. In half-an-hour the express would leave for Holyhead. He gathered his little effects together. I'utting on as much calmness as he could command, he proceeded to the office and paid his bill. On going into the street he saw the people eagerly buying up the papers giving an account of the murder. ‘Dreadful murder in Ireland,’ he heard the newsboys cry. One little urchin held a paper to him. ‘Full details of the 'orrid murder, sir; escape of the murderer. A hundred pounds reward for William Dillon.’ On the platform, in the great surging crowd, he felt more seclusion. A tall policeman, sauntering to and fro, fixed his eye on him, but Dillon returned the look unabashed and hurried on.

Having obtained his ticket through to Dublin and taken his place in the train, from his corner in the carriage he eagerly scanned every passenger entering, but the compartment was soon full; he heard the welcome whistle, and felt relief as the train moved out of the station.

During the night the passengers were transferred to the steamer awaiting them at Holyhead, and before dawn they were steaming up Dublin Bay. Dillon had the kindly shelter of darkness in going ashore. So far he had eluded the vigilance of the police, but he knew that every hour now he was being surrounded by an atmosphere of excited interest regarding the horrible crime which had been committed, in which his personality would be keenly discussed, and the chances of his being recognised by someone greatly increased.

He accordingly determined to finish the rest of his journey by a rather circuitous route, taking a northern branch of the Great Midland and Western Railway for his return, instead of the line by which he had come, and by which traffic between his county and the metropolis more usually passed.

It was early in the afternoon when the train stopped at the village, about fifteen miles from his home. From this place there was very little communication with his district, so that he felt comparatively confident that he would be able to rest a few hours and finish the remaining distance after dark without much likelihood of being recognised.

S0 soon as the night had settled down he hired a car to take him to a spot within a few miles of his own house, and about nino o'clock having arrived at the indicated place, he paid and dismissed the driver that he might finish the remainder of the journey on foot.

He had now been traveling for four and twenty hours without sleep or rest of any kind. Body and mind were both exhausted when he reached the brow of the hill hanging over the little valley in which his home lay. It was a clear starlight, night, and he dimly saw his collage nestling among the trees In-low, the light shining through the parlour window as if lovingly welcoming him home. But he knew that there was a heavy heart there and tearful were the eyes that were looking for his coming.

He sat down on a stone by the wayside, sad and weary, and he shrank from the ordeal through which he was about to pass. She would not doubt his innocence, but she would expect him to show how all the suspicions that had been woven around law name could be dispelled, and that, in the cheery way in which he had many a time before made light of his troubles, he would scatter her fears to the winds. He felt hardly able for the task, and he knew that his inability to see the way, at present, to rebut the charge would confirm her worst fears us to the result, and that her gentle heart would break under the weight of anxiety.

Turning from the cross-country road by which he had been travelling, he slowly descended the hill through the trees, and when about half-way down turning his eyes in the direction of the house his fancied he saw the figure of a man crossing the light that was streaming from the window. Could it be that the house was watched, and that he was stepping into the snare that had been laid for him? Placing himself under the shelter of some underwood where he knew he would be concealed, he watched for nearly an hour but he saw nothing further to confirm his suspicions, and he was on the point of continuing his way to the house when he heard a rustling among the leaves at some page 14 distance to the left. Nearer and nearer it came, and as he crouched closely under the shrub he saw a man pass up the bill to the road at the top, He coucluded that it was some belated traveller who had been taking a near way from the path that skirted the loch to the public road, and observing that he had passed on and that there was no other sign of any person around, Dillon proceeded towards the cottage.

Skirting the lawn under shelter of the trees, he tapped gently at the door, and mentioning who he was, the door was quickly opened, and husband and wife were in each other's arms.

‘Oh Willie dear, what is this they are saying about you? You are not guilty, dear, I know you're not.’

‘I am not guilty, darling. I have had neither part nor lot in it, though I believe I saw the flash of the gun that shot poor Captain Lewis, as I was waiting for the coach on the top of Knockmore hill, about two or three miles off.’

‘But, oh, Willie, they have woven together such a story about it, bringing in your going to the pawn-broker's, and your leaving on the coach.’

‘I know it, Minnie, dear. I read it all in the papers, and that is why I have hurried back as rapidly as I could travel, that I might give myself up to the police and face the charge.’

‘But, oh, dear, is there any danger? Porter swore that he believed it was you.’

‘There cannot be any danger, Minnie, when I am innocent. If I had thought there was, I need not have returned.’

‘I am sure, dear, that you have done right in coming at once, and God's providence will surely save you from this dreadful charge. Oh, it is dreadful.’

Little Elsie had come running to meet her father, and stood by with great wondering eyes, awed by the passionate and tender scene that was passing before her.

He took the child in his arms and affectionately kissed her. Clasping her little arms around his neck, she sobbed out, ‘Oh, father, you did not kill the man?’

‘No, my pet, I did not; I had nothing to do with it.’

‘But the policemen came here, and they were so cross, and they frightened mamma, and poor ma cried so and said you never killed the man. Oh, father! will the police come to take you away?’

‘My pet, I have come back to go to the police myself, to tell them that I did not kill the man. I will have to be away from you, dear, for a little while, to show them that I did not do it, and then I will come back again to you.’

‘Oh, dear father, I wish you would not go away; ma will be so frightened when you are gone, and we are so very, very lonely without you. Do not go, dear father.’

The little family party had seated themselves on the couch in the parlour, and were pouring out their fears and sorrows together, when they were suddenly startled by a loud knocking at the door.

Dillon started to his feet. ‘Open in the Queen's name!’ said a voice from without, and almost immediately, with a crash, the door was burst open, and a number of policemen entered the hall.

‘Dillon, I arrest you in the Queen's name, for the murder of Captain Lewis.’

‘Well, sergeant,’ said Dillon, calmly, ‘you have only your duty to perform. I have hurried back from London as quickly as I could travel, when I heard of the charge, in order that I might place myself in your hands. You have only anticipated me by a few hours. I am ready to go with you.’

‘Madam,’ said the officer to Mrs Dillon, who was standing by pale and speechless in her agony, ‘I am sorry for having this unpleasant duty to perform, the most unpleasant I have ever performed.’

‘Do not apologise, sir; you have only done your duty. My husband is innocent, and is not afraid to face the charge.

‘Mr Dillon,’ said the officer, as his prisoner was about to speak, ‘it is my duty to warn you that you are not bound to say anything to me as to this charge, and that anything you may say may be used against you at your trial.

‘I have nothing to say at the present, but that I am entirely innocent. I believe I saw the crime committed, but I was miles away at the time, and had neither part nor sympathy in it; and when I heard of it first when travelling to London, I am sure there were few more grieved for Captain Lewis than I was. Do I look like a man, sergeant, that would do such a deed?’

‘Well certainly not, Mr Dillon, I must say you are one of the very last in the county that I would have suspected of being capable of such a dreadful thing. But the evidence seems to bring it very closely home to you.’

‘So I see by the papers, and I cannot say that after rending the statements made I am surprised at people thinking me guilty.’

‘God grant that you may be able to prove your innocence,’ said the sergeant. ‘No one will be more heartily glad than I will be.’

‘Sergeant,’ said Mrs Dillon, ‘may I prepare some little things for my husband to take with him; he has only returned from London and—’

‘Certainly, madam; Mr Dillon will remain with me here, and you can put such things together as you may wish us to take for him.’

Mrs Dillon left the room, and Dillon, seating himself on the sofa, his little girl stole up to him and threw her arms round his neck; her long flaxen hair streaming over his shoulders.

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‘Father,’ she whispered, ‘are you going to gaol?’

‘Yes, my child,’ whispered the father, tenderly, ‘I am going to gaol for a short time, till I show them that I did not do it; but don't fret, Elsie darling, I will be home again with you shortly.’

‘Father, dear father,’ whispered Elsie, ‘I will pray to God for you.’

The sergeant was looking down on the little scene, and he had heard the whispered words, and a teardrop trickled down his bronzed cheek.

‘Father,’ continued Elsie in the same whispered tone, after a pause, ‘will they let me come and see you in the gaol? Would they let me stay with you there? You will be so lonely, dear father, and mamma would let me come and stay with you, and talk to you.’

‘You will be able to come and see me often, darling, and I will be so pleased to see you; but little children could not stay there. Will you come and see me sometimes, Elsie?’

‘Oh, yes. dear father, I will come very often, and when I am not there I will be always talking to dear mamma abont you, the way we talked together about you since you went away; and when mamma is too busy and cannot talk to me about you, I will talk to dear little brother Harry, and I will tell him how to pray for you, and we will both pray to God for poor, dear father in gaol, and I am sure God will hear us and will bring you home again.’

Mrs Dillon returned with a bundle, which the sergeant took and handed to one of the constables, assuring her that every attention in his power would be shown to her husband, and that he would see that every opportunity she desired would be afforded her for visiting him in the gaol, and providing him from time to time with anything further he might require.

As Dillon rose to depart, he asked the sergeant if he would accompany him into the room in which his other children were sleeping that he might see them and bid them farewell, not having seen them since his return.

Accompanied by the officer, he entered the room, where the two children were sleeping. Bending over them, the father tenderly kissed the lips of each, and with a long lingering look of tenderness he turned, away.

Hitherto Mrs Dillon had passed through the ordeal with firmness, but now her firmness failed her, and throwing her arms around him she sobbed on his neck. Disengaging himself from her embrace, he bent down and kissed little Elsie, and unable any longer to bear the parting scene he signified to the officers to proceed.

After they had left the house, the sergeant, who had delayed the operation till out of sight of Dillon's family, placed the handcuffs on his wrists. Proceeding a short distance on the road they were met by a conveyance on which the officers and their prisoner drove into the town; and worn out in body and mind, Dillon slept that night in the county gaol.