The body had been placed in Mrs. Tropenell's own room, that is, in the very room, as the cook, who had been in the house close on thirty-five years, explained to some of the members of the jury, where poor Mr. Oliver had been born. So it was there, in that peaceful, old-fashioned, lady's bedchamber, that the twelve good men and true of Pewsbury had to view the body. It was remembered afterwards that the expression on the dead man's face showed how completely he had been taken by surprise: it bore an expression of absolute serenity--almost as if he had died in his sleep. Rather to the disapproval of some of the Pewsbury people, but with the sympathetic understanding of others, Mrs. Tropenell, by her own desire, was present at the inquest; and, supporting her on the painful occasion, was her nearest neighbour and almost daughter, Mrs. Pavely. The chief witness was Mr. Robert Buckhurst, the gentleman who had been host to the ill-fated shooting party. His evidence was quite simple and straightforward--indeed, there was nothing at all strange or mysterious about the sad affair. "Lord St. Amant shot a bird," he said, "and we hunted for it for some time. We were engaged in beating up the next field, when some one said, 'Where is Tropenell?' Just at that moment I heard a shot." He waited a moment, and then went on: "It sounded as if it were fifty yards away." Again the witness paused, and then he continued gravely: "I said in jest, 'I hope he has not shot himself!' And Lord St. Amant said, 'Hold my gun, Buckhurst, and I'll walk along behind the hedge, and see if I can find him.' He got through a gap, and he could only have gone a very few yards before we heard him call out. 'Come at once! He's shot!' With this we got through a gap, and ten paces on we saw Mr. Oliver Tropenell lying on his back, parallel with the hedge. The gun was lying across his body, the muzzle towards the hedge. At first we could not find the wound, but soon we discovered that he had been shot through the heart." In reply to various questions, the witness explained how he raised Mr. Oliver Tropenell's left hand, fancying he could detect a slight flutter of the pulse. He called out for Dr. Turner, who happened to be a member of the party. That gentleman came up, and after a brief examination, said that Mr. Tropenell was certainly dead. The charge had gone through the heart, and death must have been practically instantaneous. Some one, probably the keeper, opened the breech of Mr. Tropenell's gun, and found that the cartridge in the right-hand chamber had been exploded.