“I forget what the verdict actually was,” I said, eager, too, on my side to hear him talk about that mysterious tragedy, which, as a matter of fact, had puzzled a good many people. “Oh, it was as vague and as wordy as the English language would allow. The jury found that ‘Mrs. Yule had died through falling downstairs, in consequence of a fainting attack, but _how_ she came to fall is not clearly shown.’ “What had happened was this: Mrs. Yule was a rich and eccentric old lady, who lived very quietly in a small house in Kensington; No. 9 Dartmoor Terrace is, I believe, the correct address. “She had no expensive tastes, for she lived, as I said before, very simply and quietly in a small Kensington house, with two female servants—a cook and a housemaid—and a young fellow whom she had adopted as her son. “The story of this adoption is, of course, the pivot round which all the circumstances of the mysterious tragedy revolved. Mrs. Yule, namely, had an only son, William, to whom she was passionately attached, but, like many a fond mother, she had the desire of mapping out that son’s future entirely according to her own ideas. William Yule, on the other hand, had his own views with regard to his own happiness, and one fine day went so far as to marry the girl of his choice, and that in direct opposition to his mother’s wishes. “Mrs. Yule’s chagrin and horror at what she called her son’s base ingratitude knew no bounds; at first it was even thought that she would never get over it. “‘He has gone in direct opposition to my fondest wishes, and chose a wife whom I could never accept as a daughter; he shall have none of the property which has enriched me, and which I know he covets.’ “At first her friends imagined that she meant to leave all her money to charitable institutions; but oh! dear me, no! Mrs. Yule was one of those women who never did anything that other people expected her to. Within three years of her son’s marriage she had filled up the place which he had vacated, both in her house and in her heart. She had adopted a son, preferring, as she said, that her money should benefit an individual rather than an institution. “Her choice had fallen upon the only son of a poor man—an ex-soldier—who used to come twice a week to Dartmoor Terrace to tidy up the small garden at the back: he was very respectable and very honest—was born in the same part of England as Mrs. Yule, and had an only son whose name happened to be William; he rejoiced in the surname of Bloggs. “‘It suits me in every way,’ explained Mrs. Yule to old Mr. Statham, her friend and solicitor. ‘You see, I am used to the name of William, and the boy is nice-looking and has done very well at the Board School. Moreover, old Bloggs will die within a year or two, and William will be left without any encumbrances.’