“Oh, yes.  I knew all about his origin from the first days of our acquaintanceship.  He asked me to keep his true name and rank secret.  As it was none of my business, I did so.  At times Hearne—­or rather Pine, as I know him best by that name—­grew weary of civilization, and then would return to his own life of the tent and road.  No one suspected amongst the Romany that he was anything else but a horse-coper.  He always pretended to be in Paris, or Berlin, on financial affairs, when he went back to his people, and I transacted all business during his absence.”

“You knew that he was at the Abbot’s Wood camp?”

“Certainly.  I saw him there once or twice to receive instructions about business.  I expostulated with him for being so near the house where his brother-in-law and wife were living, as I pointed out that the truth might easily become known.  But Pine merely said that his safety in keeping his secret lay in his daring to run the risk.”

“Have you any idea that Sir Hubert intended to come by night to Lord Garvington’s house?”

“Not the slightest.  In fact, I told him that Lord Garvington was afraid of burglars, and had threatened to shoot any man who tried to enter the house.”

All this Silver said in a perfectly frank, free-and-easy manner, and also related how the dead man had instructed him to ask Garvington to allow the gypsies to remain in the wood.  The reporter published the interview with sundry comments of his own, and it was read with great avidity by the public at large and by the many friends of the millionaire, who were surprised to learn of the double life led by the man.  Of course, there was nothing disgraceful in Pine’s past as Ishmael Hearne, and all attempts to discover something shady about his antecedents were vain.  Yet—­as was pointed out—­there must have been something wrong, else the adventurer, as he plainly was, would not have met so terrible a death.  But in spite of every one’s desire to find fire to account for the smoke, nothing to Pine’s disadvantage could be learned.  Even at the inquest, and when the matter was thoroughly threshed out, the dead man’s character proved to be honorable, and—­save in the innocent concealment of his real name and origin—­his public and private life was all that could be desired.  The whole story was not criminal, but truly romantic, and the final tragedy gave a grim touch to what was regarded, even by the most censorious, as a picturesque narrative.

In spite of all his efforts, Inspector Darby, of Wanbury, could produce no evidence likely to show who had shot the deceased.  Lord Garvington, under the natural impression that Pine was a burglar, had certainly wounded him in the right arm, but it was the second shot, fired by some one outside the house, which had pierced the heart.  This was positively proved by the distinct evidence of Lady Agnes herself.  She rose from her sick-bed to depose how she had opened