German newspapers flung themselves upon me in the race for information.  They seemed to scent a mystery, but I made it my business to discourage such an idea.  Nay, I went further, and deliberately stated to them, with a false air of perfect candor, that there was no foundation of any sort for such an idea.  Had not Alresca been indisposed for months?  Had he not died from failure of the heart’s action?  There was no reason why I should have misled these excellent journalists in their search for the sensational truth, except that I preferred to keep the mystery wholly to myself.

Those days after the death recur to me now as a sort of breathless nightmare, in which, aided by the admirable Alexis, I was forever despatching messages and uttering polite phrases to people I had never seen before.

I had two surprises, one greater and one less.  In the first place, the Anglo-Belgian lawyer whom I had summoned informed me, after Alresca’s papers had been examined and certain effects sealed in the presence of an official, that my friend had made a will, bearing a date immediately before our arrival in Bruges, leaving the whole of his property to me, and appointing me sole executor.  I have never understood why Alresca did this, and I have always thought that it was a mere kind caprice on his part.

The second surprise was a visit from the Burgomaster of the city.  He came clothed in his official robes.  It was a call of the most rigid ceremony.  Having condoled with me and also complimented me upon my succession to the dead man’s estate, he intimated that the city desired a public funeral.  For a moment I was averse to this, but as I could advance no argument against it I concurred in the proposal.

There was a lying-in-state of the body at the cathedral, and the whole city seemed to go in mourning.  On the second day a priest called at the house on the Quai des Augustins, and said that he had been sent by the Bishop to ask if I cared to witness the lying-in-state from some private vantage-ground.  I went to the cathedral, and the Bishop himself escorted me to the organ-loft, whence I could see the silent crowds move slowly in pairs past Alresca’s bier, which lay in the chancel.  It was an impressive sight, and one which I shall not forget.

On the afternoon of the day preceding the funeral the same priest came to me again, and I received him in the drawing-room, where I was writing a letter to Totnes.  He was an old man, a very old man, with a quavering voice, but he would not sit down.

“It has occurred to the Lord Bishop,” he piped, “that monsieur has not been offered the privilege of watching by the bier.”

The idea startled me, and I was at a loss what to say.

“The Lord Bishop presents his profound regrets, and will monsieur care to watch?”

I saw at once that a refusal would have horrified the ecclesiastic.

“I shall regard it as an honor,” I said.  “When?”