The funeral, meanwhile, passed off as smoothly as could be desired, Francis occupying the first carriage in solitary state, the three Carlyon brothers following in the second, while a scattering of persons of consequence who lived in the neighborhood and who had put in an appearance more from a desire to gratify Carlyon than from any regard for the deceased, made the cortege respectable. The tail was brought up by a few humbler personages, chief among whom was the doctor.

A cold collation having been prepared at the Hall for the chief mourners, all the more genteel personages repaired there after the interment, when Carlyon had the opportunity to observe that although Louis de Castres was absent, there were present two gentlemen who had come down from London at Francis’ behest, and were almost as beautifully arrayed as he was himself. They excused themselves early on the score of having the drive back to London to accomplish, and the local gentry, finding an awkwardness in the occasion and perhaps oppressed by the demeanor of Mr. Cheviot who seemed crushed by woe, soon followed their example, the last to leave being Sir Matthew Kendal, who shook Carlyon by the hand, saying gruffly that all was well that had ended well. Feeling that the sentiments underlying this remark might have been more felicitously expressed, he colored up to the roots of his grizzled hair and sought to cover his confusion by turning to issue a ferocious warning to Nicky to keep that damned dog of his off his preserves if he did not want to see him shot and hung up as a warning to other such marauders. After this threat, which he palliated by a playful punch in his young friend’s ribs, he took himself off, and John was at last at liberty to give vent to the annoyance which had been consuming him ever since the return of the funeral party to the Hall. Speaking with a restraint which only served to emphasize the profound nature of his vexation, he looked Francis up and down and said, “I was not aware that you cherished such peculiarly strong sentiments toward our cousin. Your grief, I dare say, does credit to your heart, but for my part, I should be glad, now that only ourselves remain to be edified by it, if you would abate its violence!”

Nicky, who had just raised a glass of madeira to his lips, was taken with a fit of choking which, while it for once brought down upon his head no rebuke from his stern brother, earned him a pained glance from Francis. A heavy sigh was the only answer Francis vouchsafed to John. He raised his handkerchief to his eyes and kept it there.

John’s lips tightened for a moment before he said, “Come, Cheviot, this is the outside of enough!”

Francis shook his head, saying into the folds of his handkerchief, “Alas, you are mistaken! I have received the most distressing tidings. These unmanly tears are not, I blush to confess, for our unfortunate young relative, but for one nearer to me by the ties of affection. Pardon me! It has cost me a severe effort to bear my part at this feast with any degree of fortitude. No, feast is not the right word: I should have said wake, but it is odd how often the funeral baked meats are partaken of in a spirit almost of jollification. My dear John, I have sustained a terrible shock which has quite overborne me!”

Both John and Nicky stood staring at him, the wildest improbabilities darting through their brains. “Why—what—?” stammered Nicky, setting down his wineglass.

Francis raised his face from his handkerchief to reply in broken accents, “You can scarcely fail to have remarked Louis’ absence today!”

“Young De Castres?” John said impatiently. “Well, and what of that?”

Francis made a despairing gesture with one white hand. “Dead!” he uttered, and sank into his handkerchief again.

“What?”Nicky gasped. “But—”

John’s grip on his elbow silenced him. John said, “Indeed! I am sorry for it. I fancy I saw him only the other day in town. I conclude his taking off was of a sudden nature?”

Francis shuddered eloquently. “Stabbed to death!” he moaned. “His body left under a bush in Lincoln’s Inn Fields! One of my oldest friends! I am wholly unmanned.”

“Good God!” John said blankly.

Carlyon’s quiet voice spoke from the doorway. He had come back into the room from seeing Sir Matthew off just in time to hear this revelation, and paused on the threshold, intently watching Francis. “Where had you this news?”

“It is in the Morning Post, which Godfrey Balcombe was so thoughtful as to bring down to me,” said Francis. “Poor fellow, he meant it to be a kindness but he little knew what a blow he was handing me! He was not acquainted with Louis, you know—scarcely glanced at the fatal paragraph! You must forgive me. My poor Louis! So intimate a friend!”

Carlyon shut the door and advanced into the room. “You must feel it indeed,” he said. “I am aware that you have for long been upon terms of the closest friendship with De Castres. There can be no doubt, I collect?”

“Ah, you would seek to encourage me to hope! But it will not do: ‘M. L—De C—,’ you know—the scion of a distinguished family of French emigrants!’ Alas, I cannot doubt it is my poor Louis! That unfortunate turn he had for walking instead of calling for a chair or a hackney! And never so much as a link-boy to go with him! How often have I warned him of the dangers of this practice, but he would never attend, and now we see the unhappy end of it. And I sending round a billet to his lodging the very day I left London, begging him to lend me his support at Eustace’s funeral! Poor fellow, I fear he was even then no more!”

“It is very shocking, indeed. You said he was killed in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, I think? Pray, at what hour was he set upon?”

Francis shook his head. “It is not stated in my newspaper. It was at night, of course, but I dare say it will never be discovered precisely when or by whose hand. What could have taken poor dear Louis to such a locality at such a time? Stripped of his purse and all his jewelry! Left to welter in his blood! Horrible!”

He shuddered again, and with so much revulsion that it was plain he was a good deal affected. Carlyon signed to Nicky to pour him a glass of brandy, and said, “Is it thought to have been the work of footpads?”

Francis nodded and took the brandy from Nicky, thanking him in a broken voice. “Such a sordid motive! Murdered for a few paltry trinkets and, I dare swear, no more than five or ten guineas, for he was not a rich man, you know. It must be a warning to us all! And to reflect that—But I must try to compose myself or I fear I shall be quite unwell! There is something so particularly disgusting to one of my delicate sensibilities in the very thought of bloodshed and, indeed, all forms of violence! Even at school I could not bring myself to engage even in sparring exercise, for the sight of a bloody nose invariably made me swoon. Yes, I feel sure I must seem a poor creature to you, but so it is, and one cannot help one’s nature, after all! I will take a little more of your excellent brandy, Carlyon, and then, if you will pardon me, I think I should take my leave of you. Repose, and—yes, perhaps a glass of hartshorn and water. Crawley shall mix one for me. Mrs. Cheviot, I am persuaded, will respect my desire for solitude until I have learned to master my emotion. Dear Nicholas, if you mean to accompany me, I wonder if you will be so very obliging as not to talk to me?”

“Thank you, I mean to ride over a little later.”

“Your thoughtfulness does you credit, my dear boy. I am so grateful!”

He drank off his second glass and rose to his feet. He said earnestly, “Thank God I brought a black waistcoat with me! This gray one does very well for Eustace, but it is now quite out of tune with my mood. My poor Louis!”

Neither John nor Nicky could find anything to say in answer to all this, but Carlyon replied with his usual calm good sense and, as soon as word was brought that Mr. Cheviot’s chaise was waiting at the door, conducted nun out to it. When he returned it was to find that John had picked up from Francis’ chair his copy of the Morning Post, folded open at the requisite sheet, and was just starting to read aloud, in a slow, stupefied voice: “A melancholy event happened two evenings since in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, where the body of a Young Man, done to death under circumstances of horrid Barbarity, was discovered yesterday morning by Mr. B—, a Clerk employed in the Chambers of a certain well-known Attorney. We understand the unfortunate Young Man to have been M. L—De C—., the Scion of one of the Distinguished families of French Emigrants with which the Metropolis still abounds. There would appear to be little room for doubt that the motive for this Brutal Murder was robbery, since we learn that M. L—. De C—’s pockets had been ransacked, and watch, fobs, seals, pins, rings—in fact, every adjunct to a Gentleman’s apparel, stripped from his person. We think it not ineligible to advert yet once again in these columns to the shocking prevalence of pickpockets in the Metropolis, and to demand for our fellow Citizens some better protection from the violence of these freebooters than the Vigilance of the Decrepit Dotards who at present patrol our streets, and—Oh, et cetera, et cetera!” John concluded impatiently. “My God, Ned, what devilish stratagems have we stumbled on? Pickpockets! I wish it might be so indeed!”

“Is that all it says in the Post?”asked Carlyon.

“That’s all, save for the usual plaint about the ineptitude of the Watch, and of the constables. It’s enough, my God!”

“Nicky, go and inquire of Chorley whether the London papers are yet arrived, will you? There may be something more in the Times, or the Advertizer.”