anation, seeing that they themselves felt such bitter resentment
against the dead man. They quite felt with the old woman's sullenness,
her hatred of the foreigner who had disturbed the serenity of her life.

Everyone else was willing to let her be, not to drag her and young
Lambert into the unpleasant vortex of these proceedings. Their home was
an abode of mourning: it was proper and seemly for them to remain
concealed and silent within their cottage; seemly, too, to have
curtained their windows and closed their doors.

No one wished to disturb them; no one but Sir Marmaduke, and with him it
was once again that morbid access of curiosity, the passionate, intense
desire to know and to probe every tiny detail in connection with his own
crime.

"The old woman Lambert should be made to identify the body, before it is
buried," he now repeated with angry emphasis, seeing that a look of
disapproval had crossed Squire Boatfield's pleasant face.

"We are satisfied as to the man's identity," rejoined the squire
impatiently, "and the sight is not fit for women's eyes."

"Nay, then she should be shown the clothes and effects.... And, if I
mistake not, there's Richard Lambert, my late secretary, has he laid
sworn information about the man?"

"Yes, I believe so," said Boatfield with some hesitation.

"Nay, Boatfield, an you are so reluctant to do your duty in this matter,
I'll speak to these people myself.... You are chief constable of the
district ... indeed, 'tis you should do it ... and in the meanwhile I
pray you, at least to give orders that the coffin be not nailed down."

The kindly squire would have entered a further protest. He did not see
the necessity of confronting an old woman with the gruesome sight of a
mutilated corpse, nor did he perceive justifiable cause for further
formalities of identification.

But Sir Marmaduke having spoken very peremptorily, had already turned on
his heel without waiting for his friend's protest, and was striding
across the patch of rough stubble, which bordered the railing round the
front of the cottage. Squire Boatfield reluctantly followed him. The
next moment de Chavasse had lifted the latch of the gate, crossed the
short flagged path and now knocked loudly against the front door.

Apparently there was no desire for secrecy or rebellion on the part of
the dwellers of the cottage, for hardly had Sir Marmaduke's imperious
knock echoed against the timbered walls, than the door was