“Or man’s neglect,” muttered the constable.

“There is no money in any of their pockets, or on either wasted figure,” the detective continued, after a few minutes of silent search.  “It must be hidden in the room, or—­look through that Bible, sirs.”

The coroner, glad of an opportunity to do something, took up the book, and ran hurriedly through its leaves, then turned it and shook it out over the table.  Nothing fell out; the bills must be looked for elsewhere.

“The furniture is scanty,” Abel observed, with an inquiring look about him.

“Very, very scanty,” assented the constable, still with that biting remorse at his heart.

“There is nothing in this cupboard,” pursued the detective, swinging open a door in the wall, “but a set of old china more or less nicked.”

Abel started.  An old recollection had come up.  Some weeks before, he had been present when James had made an effort to sell this set.  They were all in Warner’s store, and James Zabel (he could see his easy attitude yet, and hear the off-hand tones with which he tried to carry the affair off) had said, quite as if he had never thought of it before:  “By the by, I have a set of china at the house which came over in the Mayflower.  John likes it, but it has grown to be an eyesore to me, and if you hear of anybody who has a fancy for such things, send him up to the cottage.  I will let it go for a song.”  Nobody answered, and James disappeared.  It was the last time, Abel remembered, that he had been seen about town.

“I can’t stand it,” cried the lad.  “I can’t stand it.  If they died of hunger I must know it.  I am going to take a look at their larder.”  And before anyone could stop him he dashed to the rear of the house.

The constable would have liked to follow him, but he looked about the walls of the room instead.  John and James had been fond of pictures and had once indulged their fancy to the verge of extravagance, but there were no pictures on the walls now, nor was there so much as a candlestick on the empty and dust-covered mantel.  Only on a bracket in one corner there was a worthless trinket made out of cloves and beads which had doubtless been given them by some country damsel in their young bachelor days.  But nothing of any value anywhere, and Mr. Fenton felt that he now knew why they had made so many visits to Boston at one time, and why they always returned with a thinner valise than they took away.  He was still dwelling on the thought of the depths of misery to which highly respectable folks can sink without the knowledge of the nearest neighbours, when Abel came back looking greatly troubled.

“It is the saddest thing I ever heard of,” said he.  “These men must have been driven wild by misery.  This room is sumptuous in comparison to the ones at the back; and as for the pantry, there is not even a scrap there a mouse could eat.  I struck a match and glanced into the flour barrel.  It looked as if it had been licked.  I declare, it makes a fellow feel sick.”