to the top of his profession, if he had not
been a first-rate blackguard. As it was, he
both drank and gambled; nobody would have
anything to do with him in Pendlebury; and,
at the time when I was made known to him
in the chemist's shop, the other doctor, Mr.
Dix, who was not to be compared with him
for surgical skill, but who was a respectable
man, had got all the practice; and Barsham
and his old mother were living together in
such a condition of utter poverty, that it was
a marvel to everybody how they kept out of
the parish workhouse."

"Benjamin and Benjamin's mother!"
"Exactly, ma'am. Last Thursday morning
(thanks to your kindness, again) I went to
Pendlebury to my friend the chemist, to
ask a few questions about Barsham and his
mother. I was told that they had both
left the town about five years since. When
I inquired into the circumstances, some
strange particulars came out in the course
of the chemist's answer. You know I have
no doubt, ma'am, that poor Mrs. Kirkland
was confined while her husband was at sea,
in lodgings at a village called Flatfield,
and that she died and was buried there.
But what you may not know is, that
Flatfield is only three miles from Pendlebury;
that the doctor who attended on Mrs.
Kirkland was Barsham; that the nurse who took
care of her was Barsham's mother; and that
the person who called them both in, was Mr.
Forley. Whether his daughter wrote to him,
or whether he heard of it in some other way,
I don't know; but he was with her (though
he had sworn never to see her again when
she married) a month or more before her
confinement, and was backwards and forwards a
good deal between Flatfield and Peudlebury.
How he managed matters with the Barshams
cannot at present be discovered; but it is a
fact that he contrived to keep the drunken
doctor sober, to everybody's amazement. It
is a fact that Barsham went to the poor
woman with all his wits about him. It
is a fact that he and his mother came
back from Flatfield after Mrs. Kirkland's
death, packed up what few things they had,
and left the town mysteriously by night.
And, lastly, it is also a fact that the other
doctor, Mr. Dix, was not called in to help,
till a week after the birth and burial of the
child, when the mother was sinking from
exhaustion—exhaustion (to give the vagabond,
Barsham, his due) not produced, in Mr. Dix's
opinion, by improper medical treatment, but
by the bodily weakness of the poor woman
herself—"

"Burial of the child?" I interrupted,
trembling ail over. " Trottle! you spoke
that word ' burial,' in a very strange way—
you are fixing your eyes on me now with a
very strange look—"

TrQttle leaned over close to me, and pointed
through the window to the empty house.

"The child's death is registered, at
Pendlebury," he said, " on Barsham's certificate,
under the head of Male Infant, Still-Born.
The child's coffin lies in the mother's grave,
in Flattield churchyard. The child himself
as surely—as I live and breathe, is living and
breathing now—a castaway and a prisoner
in that villainous house!"

I sank back in my chair.

"It's guess-work, so far, but it is borne
in on my mind, for all that, as truth.
Rouse yourself, ma'am, and think a little.
The last I hear of Barsham, he is attending
Mr. Forley's disobedient daughter. The
next I see of Barsham, he is in Mr.
Forley's house, trusted with a secret. He
and his mother leave Pendlebury suddenly
and suspiciously five years back; and he
and his mother have got a child of five
years old, hidden away in the house. Wait!
please to wait—I have not done yet. The
will left by Mr. Forley's father, strengthens
the suspicion. The friend I took with me to
Doctors' Commons, made himself master of
the contents of that will; and when he had
done so, I put these two questions to him.
' Can Mr. Forley leave his money at his own
discretion to anybody he pleases?' 'No,'
my friend says, ' his father has left him with
only a life interest in it.' ' Suppose one of
Mr. Forley's married daughters has a girl,
and the other a boy, how would the money
go? ' 'It would all go,' my friend says, ' to the
boy, and it would be charged with the
payment of a certain annual income to his female
cousin. After her death, it would go back to
the male descendant, and to his heirs.'
Consider that, ma'am! The child of the
daughter whom Mr. Forley hates, whose husband
has been snatched away from his vengeance
by death, takes his whole property in defiance
of him; and the child of the daughter whom
he loves, is left a pensioner on her low-born
boy-cousin for life! There was good—too
good reason—why that child of Mrs.
Kirkland's should be registered still-born. And
if, as I believe, the register is founded on a
false certificate, there is better, still better
reason, why the existence of the child should
be hidden, and all trace of his parentage
blotted out, in the garret of that empty
house."

He stopped, and pointed for the second
time to the dim, dust-covered
garret-windows opposite. As he did so, I was startled—
a very slight matter sufficed to frighten me
now—by a knock at the door of the room in
which we were sitting.

My maid came in, with a letter in her
hand. I took it from her. The mourning
card, which was all the envelope enclosed,
dropped from my hands.

George Forley was no more. He had
departed this life three days since, on the
evening of Friday.

"Did our last chance of discovering the
truth," I asked, " rest with him? Has it
died with his death?"