Laurence stood very still, looking down at the hearthrug between his feet, while the rain beat against the windows. The agent watched him for a little space, and then rose, a trifle stiffly and carefully, from his chair. "I am keeping you over long with my family histories, Mr. Rivers," he said. "But it comes to me that we are about to see great changes in this place very speedily; and our conversation to-night has been a valediction to the old dynasty and a recognition of the new. There has been no lady at Stoke Rivers since Miss Agnes died, and you, so I learn, are a married man." Laurence left his contemplation of the hearthrug, and drew himself up rather sharply. "Yes," he said, "my wife is much interested in the prospect of this English property." He turned his back, and stared into the fire. "Look here, Armstrong," he said, "where was she--Agnes Rivers, I mean--where was she buried?" A singularly acute expression came over the agent's countenance. He looked hard at the young man, but the latter did not move or turn his head. The wind, increasing in force broke, as in great waves, against the house front and the curtains swayed sullenly in the draught. Armstrong cleared his throat. "I am thinking it's a calamitous night for too many poor folks at sea," he remarked; and then added:--"Buried? Weel, presumably at Bath, where she died, Mr. Rivers. A grand funeral took place there, to my grandfather's knowledge, for he was called upon to journey the whole long way from Cupar to attend it, and the snow lay some foot deep in the North. A grand funeral, truly, in appearance, with black horses, and plumes, and lumbering black coaches, and all signs of respect and customary outward manifestations of woe." Still Laurence did not move; but the gusty wind was so loud that it obliged him to raise his voice in asking-- "Well, well, if there was all this display about the funeral, why _presumably_ then?" "Because I am constrained to admit that a certain mystery surrounded that transaction. My grandparents would never speak directly of it, being prudent persons, and knowing, conceivably, more than it was becoming for them to tell. But there were tongues that said, Mr. Rivers, that no sweet lassie's corpse lay in that coffin; but only books, and cast clothes, and bricks, and rubbish, to make up the weight." Laurence turned round suddenly. His face was keen, his eyes alight. "But why?" he asked. "Partly, I surmise, on account of Mr. Dudley's atheistical views, which caused him to hate and scorn all decent Christian rites and ceremonies. And partly because of the feelings he entertained towards his cousin--for it was well known she was the only human creature that had ever moved him to love--it was apprehended he refused to part with her body even in death." For a few moments the two men looked hard at each other. "And what then?" Laurence demanded. Armstrong raised his hands, almost as in repudiation of his own thought.