As soon as Doctor Harman had taken his departure, Geoffery, with an officious affectation of sympathy, followed Alfred up stairs.

He found him seated beside the bed on which the deceased was laid, and leaning against it, with his face buried in both his hands.

The attendants had all quitted the apartment; Geoffery attempted some commonplace expressions of condolence. Alfred moved his head in a desponding manner, but did not raise it.

Geoffery while standing waiting, as it were,—for he deemed it necessary to remain a few moments with his cousin,—cast his eyes, from mere unfeeling idleness, round the apartment, when something on an adjacent table arrested his attention. He looked down upon it for a few seconds, then raised his eyes cautiously in the direction of Alfred, and perceiving that his face was still covered, lifted the object of his curiosity, which appeared to be a letter, slid it into his pocket, and after repeating his expressions of condolence and adding some sage advice respecting firmness under the unavoidable trials of life, and the expediency of courting the salutary influence of sleep, was about to retire; but Alfred, while he was bidding him good night, looked up for a moment, and said,

"I would not on any account have it known that poor Willoughby had been guilty of suicide. They may deny him Christian burial;—besides it would add greatly to my poor mother's affliction. Did not the doctor say something of a sudden seizure, a fit, having similar symptoms, and of its being likely to prove equally fatal?"

"He did."

"Let it be so supposed then, and discourage all further inquiry. Good night—" and here he again covered his face; on which Geoffery sought his own room, and having carefully shut and bolted his door, drew the purloined letter from his pocket, and without waiting to sit down, perused its contents with a countenance of eager satisfaction. He then proceeded to unfold and read an enclosure which seemed to make him look grave. After this he paced the apartment lost in thought, from which he broke into occasional soliloquy, thus: "My coming over too, just at this juncture, was the merest chance: if I had not been short of cash, I should not have thought of it." A long pause followed.—"He was always a vain fool," he recommenced: "the dread of being laughed at, I make no doubt, has goaded him to this! There must have been derangement of course, temporary, at least." He opened the letter again, and looked at a passage or two—"Incoherent enough!" he ejaculated. "But my happening to see the packet," he pursued, "was so fortunate——He had not noticed it, I should think——that, however, is a point which I must ascertain, for he appears to be by some means, aware of the suicide——but can he prove it, if necessary?——at present he seems desirous to conceal the fact, which is so far well, the mystery will look suspicious.——" Here he again opened the enclosure, shook his head, looked serious, and paced the room once or twice——"Their being abroad, however, just at this time, has happened well," he said—stopped and stood still—then added, after a long pause of deep and motionless thought, "This is most probably the only proof——It would certainly appear from its style that he had made no previous disclosure——I must talk with him——I shall easily perceive how far he is informed, and, at any rate, it is highly improbable that the letter has been seen by any witness."