"Where have I seen that face?" murmured Harry, unconsciously thinking
aloud.
"In the rogues' gallery, perhaps. Tom Jackson is his name, or one of his
names; for he has several aliases, I'm told," remarked some one standing
near.
"Yes, he's the very man!" exclaimed Harry. "I have studied his photograph
and recognize him fully, in spite of famine's ravages. The wretch! he
deserves all he suffers: and yet I pity him."
"What! the would-be assassin of Viamede?" and Harold started to his feet,
the hot blood dyeing his thin cheeks.
"The same. You feel like lynching him on the spot; and no wonder. But
refrain; _they_ would bid you, and he is already suffering a worse fate
than any you could mete out to him."
"God forgive me!" groaned Harold, dropping down again and hiding his face
in his hands, "I believe there was murder in my heart."
"The story? what was it?" asked Jones. "Tell it, Duncan; anything to help
us to a moment's forgetfulness."
The others joined in the request, and Duncan gave the full particulars of
the several attempts Jackson had made upon the lives of Mr. Travilla and
Elsie.
Allison never once lifted his face during the recital, but the rest
listened with keen interest.
"The fellow richly deserves lynching," was the unanimous verdict, "but, as
you say, is already suffering a far worse fate.
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