and to think, undisturbed, of Laura and
Marian.

If I had been a richer man, I would have gone
back to London, and would have comforted
myself with a sight of two dear faces again,
that night.  But I was bound to appear, if
called on, at the adjourned Inquest, and doubly
bound to answer my bail before the magistrate
at Knowlesbury. Our slender resources Had
suffered already; and the doubtful future—more
doubtful than ever now—made me dread
decreasing our means, by allowing myself an
indulgence, even at the small cost of a double
railway journey, in the carriages of the second class.

The next day—the day immediately following
the. Inquest—was left at my own disposal. I
began the morning by again applying at the
post-office for my regular report from Marian.
It was waiting for me, as before, and it was
written, throughout, in good spirits. I read the
letter thankfully; and then set forth, with my
mind at ease for the day, to walk to Old
Welmingham, and to view the scene of the fire by
the morning light.

Truly has the great poet said, " There is nothing
serious in mortality." Through all the
ways of our unintelligible world, the trivial and
the terrible walk hand in hand together. The
irony of circumstances holds no mortal catastrophe
in respect. When I reached the church,
the trampled condition of the burial-ground was
the only serious trace left of the fire and the
death. A rough hoarding of boards had been
knocked up before the vestry doorway. Rude
caricatures were scrawled on it already; and the
village children were fighting and shouting for
the possession of the best peep-hole to see
through. On the spot where I had heard the
cry for help from the burning room, on the spot
where the panic-stricken servant had dropped
on his knees, a fussy flock of poultry was now
scrambling for the first choice of worms after
the rain—and on the ground at my feet, where
the door and its dreadful burden had been laid
a workman's dinner was waiting for him, tied
up in a yellow basin, and his faithful cur in
charge was yelping at me for coming near the
food. The old clerk, looking idly at the slow
commencement of the repairs, had only one
interest that he could talk about, now—the
interest of escaping all blame, for his own part
on account of the accident that had happened
One of the village women, whose white, wild face
I remembered, the picture of terror, when
we pulled down the beam, was giggling with
another woman, the picture of inanity, over an
old washing-tub. Nothing serious in mortality!
Solomon in all his glory, was Solomon with the
elements of the contemptible lurking in every fold
of his robes and in every corner of his palace.

As I left the place, my thoughts turned, not
for the first time, to the complete overthrow that
all present hope of establishing Laura's identity
had now suffered through Sir Percival's death.
If he had lived well—if he had, would that
total change of circumstances really have altered
the result? Could I have made my discovery
a marketable commodity, even for Laura's sake,
after I had found out that robbery of the rights
of others was the essence of Sir Percival's crime?
Could I have offered the price of my silence for
his confession of the conspiracy, when the effect
of that silence must have been to keep the right
heir from the estates, and the right owner from
the name?  Impossible! If Sir Percival had lived,
the discovery, from which (in my ignorance of
the true nature of the Secret) I had hoped so
much, could not have been mine to suppress, or
to make public, as I thought best, for the
vindication of Laura's rights. In common honesty
and common honour, I must have gone at once to
the stranger whose birthright had been usurped
—I must have renounced the victory at the
moment when it was mine, by placing my
discovery unreservedly in that stranger's hands—
and I must have faced afresh all the difficulties
which stood between me and the one object of
my life, exactly as I was resolved, in my heart of
hearts, to face them now!

I returned to Welmingham with my mind
composed; feeling more sure of myself and my
resolution than I had felt yet.

On my way to the hotel, I passed the end of the
square in which Mrs. Catherick lived. Should
I go back to the house, and make another
attempt to see her? No. That news of Sir
Percival's death, which was the last news she ever
expected to hear, must have reached her, hours
since. All the proceedings at the Inquest had
been reported in the local paper that morning:
there was nothing I could tell her which she did
not know already. My interest in making her
speak had slackened. I remembered the furtive
hatred in her face, when she said, " There is no
news of Sir Percival that I don't expect—except
the news of his death." I remembered the
stealthy interest in her eyes when they settled
on me at parting, after she had spoken those
words. Some instinct, deep in my heart, which
I felt to be a true one, made the prospect of
again entering her presence repulsive to me—I
turned away from the square, and went straight
back to the hotel.

Some hours later, while I was resting in the
coffee-room, a letter was placed in my hands by
the waiter. It was addressed to me, by name;
and I found, on inquiry, that it had been left at
the bar by a woman, just as it was near dusk,
and just before the gas was lighted. She had
said nothing; and she had gone away again
before there was time to speak to her, or even to
notice who she was.

I opened the letter. It was neither dated,
nor signed; and the handwriting was palpably
disguised. Before I had read the first sentence,
however, I knew who my correspondent was.
Mrs. Catherick.

The letter ran as follows—I copy it exactly,
word for word:

"Sir, you have not come back, as you said
you would. No matter; I know the news, and
I write to tell you so. Did you see anything
particular in my face when you left me? I was