“Decomposition must of course have done its work, but still there must be a something to show that a corpse has so undergone the process common to all nature.  Double the lapse of time surely could not obliterate all traces of that which had been.”

“There is reason in that, Henry.”

“Besides, the coffins are all of lead, and some of stone, so that they cannot have all gone.”

“True, most true.”

“If in the one which, from the inscription and the date, we discover to be that of our ancestor whom we seek, we find the evident remains of a corpse, we shall be satisfied that he has rested in his tomb in peace.”

“Brother, you seem bent on this adventure,” said George; “if you go, I will accompany you.”

“I will not engage rashly in it, George.  Before I finally decide, I will again consult with Mr. Marchdale.  His opinion will weigh much with me.”

“And in good time, here he comes across the garden,” said George, as he looked from the window of the room in which they sat.

It was Mr. Marchdale, and the brothers warmly welcomed him as he entered the apartment.

“You have been early afoot,” said Henry.

“I have,” he said.  “The fact is, that although at your solicitation I went to bed, I could not sleep, and I went out once more to search about the spot where we had seen the—­the I don’t know what to call it, for I have a great dislike to naming it a vampyre.”

“There is not much in a name,” said George.

“In this instance there is,” said Marchdale.  “It is a name suggestive of horror.”

“Made you any discovery?” said Henry.

“None whatever.”

“You saw no trace of any one?”

“Not the least.”

“Well, Mr. Marchdale, George and I were talking over this projected visit to the family vault.”

“Yes.”

“And we agreed to suspend our judgments until we saw you, and learned your opinion.”

“Which I will tell you frankly,” said Mr. Marchdale, “because I know you desire it freely.”

“Do so.”

“It is, that you make the visit.”

“Indeed.”

“Yes, and for this reason.  You have now, as you cannot help having, a disagreeable feeling, that you may find that one coffin is untenanted.  Now, if you do find it so, you scarcely make matters worse, by an additional confirmation of what already amounts to a strong supposition, and one which is likely to grow stronger by time.”

“True, most true.”

“On the contrary, if you find indubitable proofs that your ancestor has slept soundly in the tomb, and gone the way of all flesh, you will find yourselves much calmer, and that an attack is made upon the train of events which at present all run one way.”

“That is precisely the argument I was using to George,” said Henry, “a few moments since.”

“Then let us go,” said George, “by all means.”