The London solicitor of the deceased (Mr. Merriman) was among the persons present.  But he was quite unable to assist the objects of the inquiry.  He could only say that he was inexpressibly shocked and astonished, and that he could throw no light whatever on the mysterious circumstances of the case.  At intervals during the adjourned investigation, he suggested questions which the Coroner put, but which led to no results.  After a patient inquiry, which lasted nearly three hours, and which exhausted every available source of information, the jury pronounced the customary verdict in cases of sudden death by accident.  They added to the formal decision a statement, that there had been no evidence to show how the keys had been abstracted, how the fire had been caused, or what the purpose was for which the deceased had entered the vestry.  This act closed the proceedings.  The legal representative of the dead man was left to provide for the necessities of the interment, and the witnesses were free to retire.

Resolved not to lose a minute in getting to Knowlesbury, I paid my bill at the hotel, and hired a fly to take me to the town.  A gentleman who heard me give the order, and who saw that I was going alone, informed me that he lived in the neighbourhood of Knowlesbury, and asked if I would have any objection to his getting home by sharing the fly with me.  I accepted his proposal as a matter of course.

Our conversation during the drive was naturally occupied by the one absorbing subject of local interest.

My new acquaintance had some knowledge of the late Sir Percival’s solicitor, and he and Mr. Merriman had been discussing the state of the deceased gentleman’s affairs and the succession to the property.  Sir Percival’s embarrassments were so well known all over the county that his solicitor could only make a virtue of necessity and plainly acknowledge them.  He had died without leaving a will, and he had no personal property to bequeath, even if he had made one, the whole fortune which he had derived from his wife having been swallowed up by his creditors.  The heir to the estate (Sir Percival having left no issue) was a son of Sir Felix Glyde’s first cousin, an officer in command of an East Indiaman.  He would find his unexpected inheritance sadly encumbered, but the property would recover with time, and, if “the captain” was careful, he might be a rich man yet before he died.

Absorbed as I was in the one idea of getting to London, this information (which events proved to be perfectly correct) had an interest of its own to attract my attention.  I thought it justified me in keeping secret my discovery of Sir Percival’s fraud.  The heir, whose rights he had usurped, was the heir who would now have the estate.  The income from it, for the last three-and-twenty years, which should properly have been his, and which the dead man had squandered to the last farthing, was gone beyond recall.  If I spoke, my speaking would confer advantage on no one.  If I kept the secret, my silence concealed the character of the man who had cheated Laura into marrying him.  For her sake, I wished to conceal it—­for her sake, still, I tell this story under feigned names.