A man--my father's friend--was found murdered in
sight of this spot of old-time horror, and Scoville was accused of
the act.
I was older now and saw my fault in all its enormity. I was guilty
of that crime--or so I felt in the first heat of my sorrow and
despair. I may even have said so--in dreams or in some of my self-
absorbed broodings. Though I certainly had not lifted the stick
against Mr. Etheridge, I had left the hand free which did, and
this was a sufficient occasion for remorse--or so I truly felt.
I was so affected by the thought that even my father, with his own
weight of troubles, noticed my care-worn face and asked me for an
explanation. But I held him off until the verdict was reached, and
then I told him. I had not liked his looks for some time; they
seemed to convey some doubt of the justice of this man's sentence,
and I felt that if he had such doubts, they might be eased by this
certainty of Scoville's murderous tendencies and unquestionable
greed.
And they were; but as Scoville was already doomed, we decided that
it was unnecessary to make public his past offences. However, with
an eye upon future contingencies, my father exacted from me in
writing this full account of my adventure, which with all the
solemnity of an oath I here declare to be the true story of what
befell me in the house called Spencer's Folly, on the night of
awful storm, September Eleventh, 1895.
OLIVER OSTRANDER.
Witnesses to above signature,
ARCHIBALD OSTRANDER, BELA JEFFERSON.
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