since and yields to no treatment. She is old, and for years has led an indolent and in some respects self-indulgent life, and her vital energy is at a low ebb. She insisted upon seeing the body, before it had been properly arranged, and this made her worse. Since then, her memory seems partially impaired; she ever and anon forgets what has happened, and then again remembers it, and her anguish begins anew. If she does not soon recover, there is a probability of her sinking into complete forgetfulness; and that, perhaps, would be easier for her than to continue in her present state. Sinfire is constant in attendance on her, and has taken charge of the household routine, much to the benefit of us all. The examinations and investigations are still proceeding in full vigor. John has engaged the best detectives that are to be had; and there is little reason to fear that the burglars (if they were the murderers) can escape. It is a singular circumstance, however, that as yet no traces of the gang, later than three days before the fatal night, have been discovered in this vicinity; nor do the detectives agree with our theory that the burglaries were the result of local enterprise. They think they were the work of experienced and scientific professionals, and are apparently at a loss to understand why they should needlessly have compromised themselves by staining their trail with blood. Such men kill only in the last extremity.
John is restless and irritable, and is constantly having speech with one or other of his detectives and making all sorts of crude and impracticable suggestions. He sleeps badly, he tells me, and has fearful dreams. He is looking haggard and ill, and smokes from morning till night. He will accept no advice as to the care of his health. "If I can only catch the scoundrel that shot him," he says, "I don't care what becomes of me." He avoids Sinfire more than ever,—I presume because he hates to remember that he and Henry were in the position of rivals for her favor. I don't know how he would feel if he knew as much about that matter as I do. I do all I can to keep up his spirits; but nothing appeases him. "The only medicine that will do me good is to see a hanging," he declares. But (though I do not tell him so) it begins to look as if that comfort would be indefinitely postponed.
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The burglars have proved an alibi. They were captured yesterday in Chicago. There are three of them, all known already to the police. They had in their possession some of the property stolen in this neighborhood, and have confessed the robbery; but their movements since three days before the murder have been traced, and it is perfectly clear that they were all in Buffalo at the time it was committed. John is thunderstruck and bewildered, and I am greatly disappointed; though I
