How eager he was to be there and see and hear all that was transpiring, he alone knew. No power could have stopped him, whether to go were suitable or unsuitable; for he had a strong will. He did not take the lane this time, but went straight along the high-road, turning in at the iron gates, and up the chestnut avenue. The tender green of the trees was beautiful: birds sang; the blue sky flickered through the waving leaves. Winding on, Dr. Rane met Thomas Hepburn, the undertaker and carpenter: a sickly looking but intelligent and respectable man. "Is it you, Hepburn?" "Yes, sir; I've been in to take the orders. What an awful thing it is!" he continued in a low tone, glancing round at the closed windows, as if fearful they might detect what he was saying. "The scoundrel who wrote that letter ought to be tried for murder when they discover him. And they are safe to do that, sooner or later." "The writer could have done no great harm but for Edmund North's allowing himself to go into that fatal passion." "An anonymous writer is a coward," rejoined Hepburn with scorn. "They say there'll not be an inquest." "An inquest!" repeated the doctor, to whom the idea had never occurred. "There's no necessity for an inquest." "Well, doctor, I suppose the law would in strictness exact it. But Mr. North is against it, and it's thought his wishes will be respected." "Any of the medical men can furnish a certificate of the cause of death. I could do it myself." "Yes, of course. But I've no time to stay talking," added the undertaker. "Good-day to you, sir." The next to come forth from the house was Alexander, the surgeon. Dr. Rane rubbed his eyes, almost thinking they deceived him. The brother practitioners shook hands; and Mr. Alexander--a little man with dark hair--explained what had seemed inexplicable.