  The inquest on the body of William Standerton was held next morning at the George and Dragon Inn in the village, and was attended by more than half the Neighbourhood. The affair had naturally caused an immense sensation in all ranks of Society, and, as the Coroner observed in his opening remarks, universal sympathy was felt for the bereaved family. Wilkins, who had not altogether recovered from the fright he had received on the night before, was the first witness. He stated that he had been the first to discover the murder, and then informed the coroner of the steps he had immediately taken. Questioned as to the visit paid to the Squire by Murbridge, he said that the latter was in a great rage when turned away from the house, and on being asked to do so, repeated the words he had made use of. In conclusion, he said that he was quite certain that no door or window in the house had been left unfastened on the night in question, and that he was equally certain that none were found either open, or showing signs of having been tampered with in the morning. Jim followed next, and corroborated what the butler had said. A sensation was caused when he informed the Coroner that Murbridge had threatened his father in his hearing in Australia. He described his meeting with the man in the park before dinner, and added that he had forbidden him to approach the house. Examined by the Coroner, he was unable to say anything concerning the nature of the quarrel between the two men. The doctor was next called, and gave evidence as to being summoned to the Manor House. He described the body, and gave it as his opinion that death was due to strangulation. Then followed the police officer. The landlord was the next witness, and he gave evidence to the effect that the man Murbridge had stayed at the inn, had been absent on the evening in question from eight o'clock until half-past twelve, and that he had departed for London by the first train on the following morning. The driver of the mail-cart, who had seen him standing beside the stile, was next called. He was quite sure that he had made no mistake as to the man's identity, for the reason that he had had a conversation with him at the George and Dragon Inn earlier in the evening. This completing the evidence, the jury, without leaving the room, brought in a verdict of "Wilful murder against some person or persons unknown," and for the time being the case was at an end. "You must not be disappointed, my dear sir," said Robins, afterwards; "it is all you can possibly expect. The jury could do no more on such evidence. But we've got our warrant for the arrest of Murbridge, and, as soon as we are able to lay our hands upon him, we may be able to advance another and more important step. I am going up to London this afternoon, and I give you my assurance I shall not waste a moment in getting upon his track." "And you will let me know how you succeed?" "I will be sure to do so," Robins replied. "In the meantime, there can be no harm in my putting an advertisement in the papers, offering a reward of five hundred pounds to anyone who will give such information as may lead to the discovery of the murderer." "It is a large sum to offer, sir, and will be sure to bring you a lot of useless correspondence. Still, it may be of some use, and I would suggest that you send it to the daily papers without delay." "It shall be done at once." Jim thereupon bade the detective good-bye, and returned to the house to inform his sister of what had taken place at the inquest. She quite agreed with him on the matter of the reward, and an advertisement was accordingly despatched to the London newspapers, together with a cheque to cover the cost of the insertions. Next day the mortal remains of William Standerton were conveyed to their last resting-place in the graveyard of the little village church. After the funeral Jim drove back to the Manor House, accompanied by his father's solicitor, who had travelled down from London for the ceremony. He was already aware that, by his father's death, he had become a rich man, but he had no idea how wealthy he would really be, until the will was read to him. When this had been done he was informed that he was worth upwards of half-a-million sterling. He shook his head sadly: "I'd give it all up willingly, every penny of it," he answered, "to have my father alive. Even now I can scarcely believe that I shall never see him again. It seems an extraordinary thing to me that the police have, so far, not been able to obtain any clue as to the whereabouts of Murbridge. Look at this heap of letters," he continued, pointing to a pile of correspondence lying upon the writing table, "each one hails from somebody who has either seen Murbridge or professes to know where he is to be found. One knows just such a man working in a baker's shop in Shoreditch; another has lately returned with him on board a liner from America, and on receipt of the reward will give me his present address; a third says that he is a waiter in a popular restaurant in Oxford Street; a fourth avers that he is hiding near the Docks, and intends leaving England this week. So the tale goes on, and will increase, I suppose, every day." "The effect of offering so large a reward," replied the lawyer. "My only hope is that it will not have the effect of driving him out of England. In which case the difficulty of laying hands upon him will be more than doubled." "He need not think that flight will save him," Jim replied. "Let him go where he pleases, I will run him to earth." Helen had spent the day at the Manor House, trying to comfort Alice in her distress. At nine o'clock she decided to return to her own home, and Jim determined to accompany her. They accordingly set off together. So occupied were they by their own thoughts, that for some time neither of them spoke. Jim was the first to break the silence. "Helen," he said, "I cannot thank you sufficiently for your goodness to Alice during this awful time. But for you I do not know how she would have come through it." "Poor girl," Helen answered, "my heart aches for her." "She was so fond of our father," James answered. "Not more than you were, dear," Helen replied; "but you have borne your trouble so bravely—never once thinking of yourself." The night was dark, and there was no one about, so why should he not have slipped his arm round her waist. "Helen," he said, "the time has come for me to ask what our future is to be. Will you wait for Mr. Bursfield's death before you become my wife, or will you court his displeasure and trust yourself to me?" "I would trust myself to you at any time," she answered. "But do you not see how I am situated? I owe everything to my Guardian. But for his care of me in all probability I should now be a governess, a music-mistress, or something of that sort. He has fed me, clothed me, and loved me, after his own fashion, for a number of years. Would it not, therefore, seem like an act of the basest ingratitude to leave him desolate, merely to promote my own happiness?" "And does my happiness count for nothing?" Jim returned. "But let us talk the matter over dispassionately, and see what can be done. Don't think me heartless, Helen, when I say, that you must realise that Mr. Bursfield is a very old man. It is just possible, therefore, that the event we referred to a few moments ago may take place in the near future. Now, owing to my father's death, I ought not to be married for some time to come. I propose, therefore, that we wait until, say, the end of six months, and then make another appeal to your guardian? It is just possible he may be more inclined to listen to reason then. What do you say? "I will do whatever you wish," she answered simply. "I fear, however, that, while Mr. Bursfield lives, he will take no other view of the case." "We must hope that he will," Jim replied. "In the meantime, as long as I know that you are true to me, and love me as I love you, I shall be quite happy." "You do believe that I love you, don't you, Jim?" she asked, looking up at her lover in the starlight. "Of course I do," he answered. "God knows what a lucky man I deem myself for having been permitted to win your love. I am supremely thankful for one thing, and that is, the fact that my father learnt to know and love you before his death." "As I had learnt to love him," she replied. "But there, who could help doing so?" "One man at least," Jim replied. "Unhappily, we have the worst of reasons for knowing that there was one person in the world who bore him a mortal hatred." "Have you heard anything yet from the police regarding Murbridge?" "Not a word," Jim answered. "They have given me their most positive assurance that they are leaving no stone unturned to find the man, but, so far, they appear to have been entirely unsuccessful. If they do not soon run him down I shall take up the case myself, and see what I can do with it. And now here we are at the gate. You do not know how hard it is for me to let you go, even for so short a time. With the closing of that door the light seems to go out of my life." "I hope and pray that you will always be able to say that," she answered solemnly. Then they bade each other good-night, and she disappeared into the house, leaving Jim free to resume his walk. He had not gone many steps, however, before he heard his name called, and, turning round, beheld no less a person than Mr. Bursfield hurrying after him. He waited for the old gentleman to come up. It was the first time that Jim had known him to venture beyond the limits of his own grounds. The circumstance was as puzzling as it was unusual. "Will you permit me a short conversation with you, Mr. Standerton?" Mr. Bursfield began. "I recognised your voice as you bade Miss Decie good-bye, and hurried after you in the hope of being able to see you." For a moment Jim hoped that Mr. Bursfield had come after him in order to make amends, and to withdraw his decision regarding his marriage with Helen. This hope, however, was soon extinguished. "Mr. Standerton," the old gentleman continued, "you may remember what I told you a few evenings since concerning the proposal you did me the honour of making on behalf of my ward, Miss Decie?" "I remember it perfectly," Jim replied; "it is scarcely likely that I should forget." "Since then I have given the matter careful consideration, and I may say that I have found no reason for deviating from my previous decision." "I am sorry indeed to hear that. The more so as your ward and myself are quite convinced that our affections are such as will not change or grow weaker with time. Indeed, Mr. Bursfield, I have had another idea in my mind which I fancied might possibly commend itself to you, and induce you to reconsider your decision. You have already told me that Miss Decie's presence is necessary to your happiness. As a proof of what a good girl she is I might inform you that, only a few moments since, she told me that she could not consent to leave you, for the reason that she felt that she owed all she possessed to you." "I am glad that Helen has at least a spark of gratitude," the other answered with a sneer. "It is a fact that she does owe everything to me. And now for this idea of yours." "What I was going to propose is," said Jim, "that in six months' time, or so, you should permit me to marry your ward, and from that day forward should take up your residence with us." The old man looked at him in astonishment. Then he burst into a torrent of speech. "Such a thing is not to be thought of," he cried. "I could not consider it for a moment; it would be little short of madness. I am a recluse. I care less than nothing for society. My books are my only companions; I want, and will have, no others. Besides, I could not live in that house of yours, were you to offer me all the gold in the world." Here he grasped Jim's arm so tightly that the young man almost winced. "I have, of course, heard of your father's death," he continued. "It is said that he was murdered. But, surely, knowing what you do, you are not going to be foolish enough to believe that?" "And why not?" Jim enquired in great surprise. "I can do nothing else, for every circumstance of the case points to murder. Good heavens! Mr. Bursfield, if my father were not murdered, how did he meet his death?" The other was silent for a moment before he replied. Then he drew a step nearer, and, looking up at Jim, asked in a low voice: "Have you forgotten what I said to you concerning the mystery of the house? Did I not tell you that one of the former owners was found dead in bed, having met his fate in identically the same manner as your father did? Does not this appear significant to you? If not, your understanding must indeed be dull." The new explanation of the mystery was so extraordinary, that Jim did not know what to say or think about it. That his father's death had resulted from any supernatural agency had never crossed his mind. "I fear I am not inclined to agree with you, Mr. Bursfield," he said somewhat coldly. "Even if one went so far as to believe in such things, the evidence given by the doctor at the inquest would be sufficient to refute the idea." "In that case let us drop the subject," Bursfield answered. "My only desire was to warn you. It is rumoured in the village that on the night of your father's death one of your domestics was confronted by the spectre known as the Black Dwarf, and fainted in consequence. My old man-servant also told me this morning that your butler had seen it on another occasion. I believe the late Lord Childerbridge also saw it, and in consequence determined to be rid of the place at any cost. No one has been able to live there, and I ask you to be warned in time, Mr. Standerton. For my own part, as I have said before, though it is the home of my ancestors, I would not pass a night at Childerbridge for the wealth of all the Indies." "In that case you must be more easily frightened than I am," said Jim. "On the two occasions you mention, the only evidence we have to rely upon is the word of a hysterical maid-servant, and the assurance of a butler, who, for all we know to the contrary, may have treated himself more liberally than usual, on that particular evening, to my father's port." "Scoff as you will," Bursfield returned, "but so far as you are concerned I have done my duty. I have given you your warning, and if you do not care to profit by it, that has nothing to do with me. And now to return to the matter upon which I hastened after you this evening. I refer to your proposed marriage with my ward." Jim said nothing, but waited for Mr. Bursfield to continue. He had a vague feeling that what he was about to hear would mean unhappiness for himself. "I informed you the other day," the latter continued, "that it was impossible for me to sanction your proposal. I regret that I am still compelled to adhere to this decision. In point of fact, I feel that it is necessary for me to go even further, and to say that I must for the future ask you to refrain from addressing yourself to Miss Decie at all." "Do you mean that you refuse me permission to see her or to speak with her?" Jim asked in amazement. "If, by seeing her, you mean holding personal intercourse with her, I must confess that you have judged the situation correctly. I am desirous of preventing Miss Decie from falling into the error of believing that she will ever be your wife." "But, my dear sir, this is an unheard-of proceeding. Why should you object to me in this way? You know nothing against me, and you are aware that I love your ward. You admitted, on the last occasion that I discussed the matter with you, that Miss Decie might expect little or nothing from you at your death. Why, therefore, in the name of Commonsense, are you so anxious to prevent her marrying the man she loves, and who is in a position to give her all the comfort and happiness wealth and love can bestow?" "You have heard my decision," the other replied quietly. "I repeat that on no consideration will I consent to a marriage between my ward and yourself. And, as I said just now, I will go even further, and forbid you most positively for the future either to see or to communicate with her." "And you will not give me your reasons for taking this extraordinary step?" "I will not. That is all I have to say to you, and I have the honour to wish you a good evening." "But I have not finished yet," said Jim, whose anger by this time had got the better of him. "Once and for all, let me tell you this, Mr. Bursfield: I have already informed you that I am determined, at any cost, to make Miss Decie my wife. I might add now, that your tyrannical behaviour will only make me the more anxious to do so. If the young lady deems it incumbent upon her to await your consent before marrying me, I will listen to her and not force the matter; but give her up I certainly will not so long as I live." "Beware, sir, I warn you, beware!" the other almost shrieked. "If that is all you have to say to me I will bid you good evening." But Bursfield did not answer; he merely turned on his heel and strode back in the direction of the Dower House. Jim stood for a moment looking after his retreating figure, and when he could no longer distinguish it, turned and made his way homewards. On reaching the Manor House he informed his sister of what had taken place between himself and Helen's guardian. "He must be mad to treat you so," said Alice, when her brother had finished. "He knows that Helen loves you, and surely he cannot be so selfish as to prefer his own comfort to her happiness." "I am afraid that is exactly what he does do," said Jim. "However, I suppose I must make allowances. Old age is apt to be selfish. Besides, we have to remember, as Helen says, that she owes much to him. No! we will do as we proposed, and wait six months, and see what happens then!" But though he spoke so calmly he was by no means at ease in his own mind. He was made much happier, however, by a note which was brought to him as he was in the act of retiring to rest. It was in Helen's handwriting, and he tore it open eagerly.
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