It pleased her to talk of her dead brother, and, sitting there saying all the nice things I could about him, and full of a real and genuine sympathy for her, I could hardly realise that it was I who had knelt in the dusky lane with my fingers on the dying youth’s throat. “He had a great admiration for you,” she said, with a faint smile. “He thought you the cleverest person he had ever met.” “His was one of the sunniest natures; no one could help loving him.” “He was spoilt, of course. My father spoilt him terribly. It was not to be wondered at if he was a little wild.” I allowed her to talk on till I rose to go and meet Mr. Gascoyne. “I don’t know why,” she said, as she came out into the lane with me, “but I have always imagined my uncle to be a very hard man. I read ‘Nicholas Nickleby’ when I was a little girl, and I could not help drawing a comparison between my father, who was like Nicholas’s father, and lived in the country, and my uncle, who, of course, represented Ralph Nickleby.” I smiled. “You will find Mr. Gascoyne very different from that. He is much softened of late, but I don’t think that he has ever been a miser, even if at times he has carried the principle of justice to the verge of hardness.” I was thinking of the circumstances of my first appeal to him. When I left her I went at once to the station, and, as the train was late, had some time to wait. There were one or two yokels in the tiny waiting-room, and the station-master addressed one of them as he passed through from his little ivy-covered cottage to the ticket-office. “Sad thing, this, about Mr. Gascoyne, Edward.” The young man in question answered slowly: “Yes. They say as ’is ’orse kicked him to death.” “That’s strange—very strange. Was the horse bad-tempered?” “Not that I know of, and I’ve shod the mare often enough.” “They say as Miss Gascoyne is powerful cut up.” “That’s very likely; yer see, she doted on him.” I scrutinised young Gray, the last speaker, narrowly. His manner betrayed no indication that he was in any way aware of his sister’s condition. As Mr. Gascoyne descended from the train he pressed my hand warmly. “This is very terrible,” I said—“very terrible.” “Tell me, how did it happen?” As we drove towards the Grange I detailed the event as well as I could. “You think the horse kicked him to death—a horse that was fond of him? That is somewhat strange.” “I don’t say it is so, sir. That is what has been surmised.” “When do they hold the inquest?” “To-morrow.” “My wife is shocked beyond measure. If my niece had expressed the least wish for her to do so, she would have come too.” I did not answer. I could not say how Miss Gascoyne would welcome the idea of her aunt assuming the role of a near relation. “I am very touched at her sending for me—very touched indeed. Is the body at the Grange?” “No; it is at a farmhouse some miles off. It will be brought home after the inquest.” “Quite so.” We reached the Grange.