voices as in dispute, and seemingly issuing from the room just above.
He hurried to the foot of the stairs, and listened. He distinctly caught
the voice of Mr. Hylton, and the words of another voice,--"You'll be
sorry for that!" The tavern-keeper heard nothing more. Presently, he too
went to bed.

Morning came, and the servants were busy in the kitchen. At half-past
six, Tommy Taft ought, as on former occasions, to have carried a pitcher
of hot water up to his employer's bedroom. But he failed to do so, this
morning. At seven, Mr. Hylton ought to have been seated at the breakfast
table; but he did not appear.

The tavern-keeper, when the clock had struck eight, went upstairs. He
rapped on the door of the small square room. No response. He forced open
the door.

"Ah!" he exclaimed. "Tommy Taft gone! and the bed not slept in,
neither!"

The window was open. It had rained during the night, and on the soft,
gravel mould beneath the window he discovered foot prints. He turned,
and went to the door which communicated between the two apartments. It
was unlocked. He turned the knob,--opened the door gently, and beheld
John Hylton lying in a pool of blood, with his throat gashed, and with
a large clasp-knife clenched in his right hand!

It was indeed a mystery. The discovery of the tragedy was followed by
intense excitement. The coroner's jury suspected Tommy Taft as the
murderer, because the knife which was found in the hand of the victim
bore on its hilt the initials "T.T.", and because the tavern-keeper