He was reading an epitaph on an expansive black flag-stone, in the far corner of the church-yard—­it is still there—­upon several ancestral members of the family of Lowe, who slept beneath ‘in hope,’ as the stone-cutter informed the upper world; and musing, as sad men will, upon the dates and vanities of the record, when a thin white hand was lightly laid upon his sleeve from behind; and looking round, in expectation of seeing the rector’s grave, simple, kindly countenance, he beheld, instead, with a sort of odd thrill, the white glittering face of Mr. Paul Dangerfield.

‘Hamlet in the church-yard!’ said the white gentleman, with an ambiguous playfulness, very like a sneer.  ’I’m too old to play Horatio; but standing at his elbow, if the Prince permits, I have a friendly word or two to say, in my own dry way.’

There was in Mervyn’s nature something that revolted instinctively from the singular person who stood at his shoulder.  Their organisations and appetites were different, I suppose, and repellent.  Cold and glittering was the ’gelidus anguis in herba’—­the churchyard grass—­who had lifted his baleful crest close to his ear.

There was a slight flush on ‘Hamlet’s’ forehead, and a glimmer of something dangerous in his eye, as he glanced on his stark acquaintance.  But the feeling was transitory and unreasonable, and he greeted him with a cold and sad civility.

‘I was thinking, Mr. Mervyn,’ said Mr. Dangerfield, politely, ’of walking up to the Tiled House, after church, to pay my respects, and ask the favour of five minutes’ discourse with you; and seeing you here, I ventured to present myself.’

‘If I can do anything to serve Mr. Dangerfield,’ began Mervyn.

Dangerfield smiled and bowed.  He was very courteous; but in his smile there was a character of superiority which Mervyn felt almost like an insult.

’You mistake me, Sir.  I’m all gratitude; but I don’t mean to trouble you further than to ask your attention for two or three minutes.  I’ve a thing to tell you, Sir. I’m really anxious to serve you.  I wish I could.  And ’tis only that I’ve recollected since I saw you, a circumstance of which possibly you may make some use.’

‘I’m deeply obliged, Sir—­deeply,’ said Mervyn, eagerly.

’I’m only, Sir, too happy.  It relates to Charles Archer.  I’ve recollected, since I saw you, a document concerning his death.  It had a legal bearing of some sort, and was signed by at least three gentlemen.  One was Sir Philip Drayton, of Drayton Hall, who was with him at Florence in his last illness.  I may have signed it myself, but I don’t recollect.  It was by his express desire, to quiet, as I remember, some proceedings which might have made a noise, and compromised his family.’

‘Can you bring to mind the nature of the document?’