This dreadful announcement, as one might expect, completely overcame the countess.  She fainted, but not till she had heard and comprehended Chilton’s hurried injunctions to secrecy and silence.  He rang the bell for assistance, and then left the house.  The mental agony of Lady Seyton on recovering consciousness was terrible, and she with great difficulty succeeded in concealing its cause from her anxious and wondering relatives.  Another interview with Chilton appeared to confirm the truth of his story beyond doubt or question.  He produced a formally-drawn-up document, signed by one Pierce Cunningham, grave-digger of Swords, which set forth that Charles Gosford was buried on the 26th of June, 1832, and that the inscription on his tombstone set forth that he had died June 23d of that year.  Also a written averment of Patrick Mullins of Dublin, that he had lettered the stone at the head of the grave of Charles Gosford in Swords burying-ground in 1832, and that its date was, as stated by Pierce Cunningham, June 23, 1832.

“Have you copies of those documents?” asked Mr. Flint.

“Yes:  I have brought them with me,” the countess replied, and handed them to Mr. Flint.  “In my terror and extremity,” continued her ladyship, “and unguided by counsel—­for, till now I have not dared to speak upon the subject to any person—­I have given this Chilton, at various times, large sums of money—­but he is insatiable; and only yesterday—­I cannot repeat his audacious proposal—­you will find it in this note.”

“Marriage!” exclaimed Mr. Flint with a burst.  He had read the note over my shoulder.  “The scoundrel!”

My worthy partner was rather excited.  The truth was he had a Clara of his own at home—­a dead sister’s child—­very pretty, just about marriageable, and a good deal resembling, as he told me afterwards, our new and interesting client.

“I would die a thousand deaths rather,” resumed Lady Seyton, in a low, tremulous voice, as she let fall her veil.  “Can there,” she added in a still fainter voice, “be anything done—­anything”—­

“That depends entirely,” interrupted Mr. Flint, “upon whether this fine story is or is not a fabrication, got up for the purpose of extorting money.  It seems to me, I must say, amazingly like one.”

“Do you really think so?” exclaimed the lady with joyful vehemence.  The notion that Chilton was perhaps imposing on her credulity and fears seemed not to have struck her before.

“What do you think, Sharp?” said my partner.

I hesitated to give an opinion, as I did not share in the hope entertained by Flint.  Detection was so certain, that I doubted if so cunning a person as Chilton appeared to be would have ventured on a fraud so severely punishable.  “Suppose,” I said, avoiding an answer, “as this note appoints an interview at three o’clock to-day at Seyton House, we meet him there instead of your ladyship?  A little talk with the fellow might be serviceable.”