ON THE DROP.

Patea Mail, Volume IX, Issue 1093, 1 October 1883, Page 4

ON THE DROP.

LITERATURE.

On the 14th of August, 1877, Sir James Fielding, Bart, of Stonleigh, library, and after the detectives had investigated the matter, I John Hollis, his private secretary, was arrested for the crime. I was stunned, bewildered. When the sergeant drawing me on one side, intimated that he was about to arrest me, Hooked at him dazedly, and then was ready to laugh at the absurdity of the thing. But I soon found it was no laughing matter. There is no need to recapitulate the circumstantial evidence that pointed so conclusively to me as the murderer. My object is to give you some idea of my sensations after my trial. Suffice it then to say that a chain of evidence was collected which threatened to hang me, and such had been my position towards the deceased baronet, who had lifted me out of poverty, educated me, ami placed me in a position of the greatest trust, that the public mind, firmly believing me to he the murderer, assumed an attitude of the greatest hostility towards mo, and when I descended from the police van to enter the court the mob made such a fierce rush at me that it was only with the utmost difficulty that the police could drive them back.

The trial proceeded, and despite the fact that I had a roost energetic and clever young lawyer, it was seen that 1 should bo convicted, and when at last the Judge summed up strongly against me all hope died out of my heart. Then I grasped at the idea that the jury would disagree, and I fancied that one of them had looked pilingly at me. How long the time seemed, and yet how short, and how the people were whispering and looking at me. Then an odd idea struck me. I thought I was looking undignified in standing ns I was with bent knees, and hand grasping the rails, and I straightened myself np, folded my arms, and leant against the back of the dock ; but presently I caught myself relapsing into my old attitude again of listless dejection. Now the old clock at the top of the Guildhall, in which we are, booms out the honr of nine, and just after there is a rustle among the people, and looking np 1 see the jury coming in. I have no hope, and yet, I listen eagerly for the reply, as the foreman is asked if they have agreed upon their verdict; how still the people are as he replies, “ Guilty,” and then I hear some one dashing through the passage, and flinging open the glass doo>s. I hear them swing to and fro after him, I hear him shout “Gnilty;” there is first, a murmur, and then a terrible, a universal roar. The judge asks me if I have anything to say why sentence of death should not be passed on me. In a stnpor I mutter that I am innocent and the next day’s papers comment upon my defiant and hardened attitude. The Judge assumes the black cap, and passes sentence in a choking voice; and I speculate curiously on his crying while my eyes are dry, and then I wake np to hear him say “to be hanged by the neck until'yon are dead, and may the Lord have mercy upon yonr soul.” Then I am led away. Outside in the lobby the police wait a moment. I ask, Why? “Four of ns could never get you through that,” says the sergeant, pointing to the mob that are surging round the door, “ I am not afraid ; let ns go on,” I say. I have a feeble hope that they may kill me. Now a line of police is formed, and I am quickly hurried through, but not before a stone has cut my cheek open.

I was taken into a cell in which two warders were sitting, and I know it is the condemned cell, which I shall occupy for ten days, until I am led out into that dreadful yard to die, and as the thought struck me I flung myself upon the bed and for the first time burst into a passion of tears. Presently the warder asked me if I would have some supper. I shook my head, but he said kindly, “ You had better try to eat a little, sir.” “ Bring me what yon like,” and in a few moments he brought in some ham cut np, and some coffee. I begin to eat, and find my appetite to be better than I hadexpected. After supper I am seized with a sudden gaiety. I have been- thinking, and I cannot believe that Heaven will doom an innocent man to a felon’s death. I propose a game of cards to the warders, and we sit down to one, bnt I notice that they eye me sharply. In the midst of the game, when I am langhing londly at some joke of my own, the grating in the door is opened, then the bolts are drawn back, and the chaplain enters. He looks with surprise on the scene, and appears rather disconcerted, as I meet him with a smiling face.' Then he says: “ Can yon spare me a few moments, Mr Hollis, please ?” 1 Yes, sir,” I reply gaily, “as soon as I finish the game.” (To he Continued.)