ile--yes, laughing--you know the cursed grin he has. To proceed. 'You
have called me,' said he to Sir Piers; 'I am here. What would you with
me?'--'We are not alone,' groaned the dying man. 'Leave us, Mr.
Tyrconnel--leave me for five minutes--only five, mark me.'--'I'll go,'
thinks I, 'but I shall never see you again alive.' And true enough it
was--I never did see him again with breath in his body. Without more
ado, I left him, and I had scarcely reached the corridor when I heard
the door bolted behind me. I then stopped to listen: and I'm sure you'll
not blame me when I say I clapped my eye to the keyhole; for I suspected
something wrong. But, Heaven save us! that crafty gravedigger had taken
his precautions too well. I could neither see nor hear anything, except
after a few minutes, a wild unearthly screech. And then the door was
thrown open, and I, not expecting it, was precipitated head foremost
into the room, to the great damage of my nose. When I got up, Peter had
vanished, I suppose, as he came; and there was poor Sir Piers leaning
back upon the pillow with his hands stretched out as if in supplication,
his eyes unclosed and staring, and his limbs stark and stiff!"

A profound silence succeeded this narrative. Mr. Coates would not
venture upon a remark. Dr. Small seemed, for some minutes, lost in
painful reflection; at length he spoke: "You have described a shocking
scene, Mr. Tyrconnel, and in a manner that convinces me of its fidelity.
But I trust you will excuse me, as a friend of the late Sir Piers, in
requesting you to maintain silence in future on the subject. Its
repetition can be productive of no good, and may do infinite harm by
giving currency to unpleasant reports, and harrowing the feelings of the
survivors. Every one acquainted with Sir Piers's history must be aware,
as I dare say you are already, of an occurrence which cast a shade over
his early life, blighted his character, and endangered his personal
safety. It was a dreadful accusation. But I believe, nay, I am sure, it
was unfounded. Dark suspicions attach to a Romish priest of the name of
Checkley. He, I believe, is beyond the reach of human justice. Erring
Sir Piers was, undoubtedly. But I trust he was more weak than sinful. I
have reason to think he was the tool of others, especially of the wretch
I have named. And it is easy to perceive how that incomprehensible
lunatic, Peter Bradley, has obtained an ascendancy over him. His
daughter, you a