About ten o'clock on the morning of the discovery of the murder, Captain McBane and General Belmont, as though moved by a common impulse, found themselves at the office of the Morning Chronicle. Carteret was expecting them, though there had been no appointment made. These three resourceful and energetic minds, representing no organized body, and clothed with no legal authority, had so completely arrogated¹ to themselves the leadership of white public sentiment as to come together instinctively² when an event happened which concerned the public, and, as this murder presumably did, involved the matter of race.  
"Well, gentlemen," demanded McBane impatiently, "what are we going to do with the scoundrel when we catch him?"
 
"They've got the murderer," announced a reporter, entering the room.
 
"Who is he?" they demanded in a breath.
 
"A nigger by the name of Sandy Campbell, a servant of old Mr. Delamere."
 
"How did they catch him?"
 
"Our Jerry saw him last night, going toward Mrs. Ochiltree's house, and a white man saw him coming away, half an hour later."
 
"Has he confessed?"
 
"No, but he might as well. When the posse went to arrest him, they found him cleaning the clothes he had worn last night, and discovered in his room a part of the plunder⁴. He denies it strenuously⁵, but it seems a clear case."
 
"There can be no doubt," said Ellis, who had come into the room behind the reporter. "I saw the negro last night, at twelve o'clock, going into Mr. Delamere's yard, with a bundle in his hand."
 
"He is the last negro I should have suspected," said Carteret. "Mr.
Delamere had implicit⁶ confidence in him."
"All niggers are alike," remarked McBane sententiously. "The only way to keep them from stealing is not to give them the chance. A nigger will steal a cent off a dead man's eye. He has assaulted and murdered a white woman,—an example should be made of him."
 
Carteret recalled very distinctly the presence of this negro at his own residence on the occasion of little Theodore's christening dinner. He remembered having questioned the prudence⁷ of letting a servant know that Mrs. Ochiltree kept money in the house. Mr. Delamere had insisted strenuously upon the honesty of this particular negro. The whole race, in the major's opinion, was morally undeveloped, and only held within bounds by the restraining influence of the white people. Under Mr. Delamere's thumb this Sandy had been a model servant,—faithful, docile⁸, respectful, and self-respecting; but Mr. Delamere had grown old, and had probably lost in a measure his moral influence over his servant. Left to his own degraded ancestral instincts, Sandy had begun to deteriorate⁹, and a rapid decline had culminated¹⁰ in this robbery and murder,—and who knew what other horror? The criminal was a negro, the victim a white woman;—it was only reasonable to expect the worst.
 
"He'll swing for it," observed the general.
 
Ellis went into another room, where his duty called him.
 
"He should burn for it," averred¹¹ McBane. "I say, burn the nigger."
 
"This," said Carteret, "is something more than an ordinary crime, to be dealt with by the ordinary processes of law. It is a murderous and fatal assault upon a woman of our race,—upon our race in the person of its womanhood, its crown and flower. If such crimes are not punished with swift and terrible directness, the whole white womanhood of the South is in danger."
 
"Burn the nigger," repeated McBane automatically.
 
"Neither is this a mere³ sporadic¹² crime," Carteret went on. "It is symptomatic; it is the logical and inevitable¹³ result of the conditions which have prevailed in this town for the past year. It is the last straw."
 
"Burn the nigger," reiterated¹⁴ McBane. "We seem to have the right nigger, but whether we have or not, burn a nigger. It is an assault upon the white race, in the person of old Mrs. Ochiltree, committed by the black race, in the person of some nigger. It would justify¹⁵ the white people in burning any nigger. The example would be all the more powerful if we got the wrong one. It would serve notice on the niggers that we shall hold the whole race responsible for the misdeeds of each individual."
 
"In ancient Rome," said the general, "when a master was killed by a slave, all his slaves were put to the sword."
 
"We couldn't afford that before the war," said McBane, "but the niggers don't belong to anybody now, and there's nothing to prevent our doing as we please with them. A dead nigger is no loss to any white man. I say, burn the nigger."
 
"I do not believe," said Carteret, who had gone to the window and was looking out,—"I do not believe that we need trouble ourselves personally about his punishment. I should judge, from the commotion¹⁶ in the street, that the public will take the matter into its own hands. I, for one, would prefer that any violence, however justifiable¹⁷, should take place without my active intervention¹⁸."
 
"It won't take place without mine, if I know it," exclaimed McBane, starting for the door.
 
"Hold on a minute, captain," exclaime............