Not a name of any distinction. It suggested absolutely nothing to the coroner. In fact, it would have been regarded as a piece of annoying irrelevance on the part of the late Captain Vanton had not his son, a young fellow with a hang-dog look, said sullenly that it was the real name of the writer. The coroner had been mightily puzzled and not a little suspicious. Whereupon Guy Vanton had suggested, still more sullenly, that the manuscript itself might supply an explanation fuller and more convincing than his own assertion. The coroner thereupon turned his attention again to the document before him, and read it--a serious occupation that took him as long as an ordinary inquest. Yet, in a way, the occupation saved trouble if not time, for after his perusal the coroner decided that it was “a plain case of suicide--man plumb crazy--must have been crazy for years”; and that an inquest was wholly unnecessary. As the manuscript on which the late Captain Vanton (or Jacob King) had lavished so much literary skill (or insane invention) thus became, through the coroner’s intervention, an official record, any one caring to hunt through the dusty and sneeze-provoking accumulation of papers in the coroner’s office could read it in full, from beginning to end, written, as it had been, at various times and in various places, in several colours of ink, but always in the same small, slanting, distinctive hand. So perused, it ran as follows: V I, Jacob King, was born in New York City. I ran away to sea at the age of 14, and at 19 I was a ship’s officer.