“None was held. ’Twas an odd thing, you’ll say; and a cursed odd thing it was. But none was held for all that. Men’s minds were disorganized at that time, ’tis said. There was the French and Spanish coalition, and dark trouble about a possible descent on the coast--like as there is now. Who was to think of one murdered land-loper, that nobody knew or claimed, when all eyes were turned to the sea? Anyhow, there he swung and rotted, to the huge scandal of the neighbourhood, till he and his head parted company and came to the ground.” “But there must have been legatees--executors--lawyers interested, at the very least?” “They never put in a claim, then. The fellow was here, and gone, and narry a sign. ’Twas a queer business.” “Well, heaven rest his bones at the last!” “I’ll give you Amen to that. You are its deputy for one of them by all account.” “Eh! What d’ye say?” “’Tis a tale hereabouts that Whimple’s mad sister has the creature’s skull in keepin’--that for months she hovered like a crow under the gallows, and picked it up at last when it fell.” “Good God! She has--or had. I’ve seen it.” “Ah! A pretty plaything for a maid. Well, that’s Mr. Turk’s story, as I know it.” The listener sat for some moments in a profound and bewildered silence. Vaguely, through his brain, like faint harmonics, ran the words of the lawyer Creel and his own question to which they had been an answer: “When did it come to him?” “That I may answer you. It was in the year ’79.” So his father had himself slipped into possession of this mysterious estate at the very time that ghastly scarecrow was tossing in the wind. How then was it, that he had not caused inquiry to be made as to the fate of his predecessor--had not set bloodhounds on the track of the assassins--had not even allotted the poor remains some decent burial? For the first time a little mist of darkness gathered in his heart--a suspicion born of the unaccountable secrecy that was the main condition of his inheritance. Presently he looked up with a troubled face. “Then Whimple and his sister,” he said, “were early put in charge of the deserted place?--but they were, of course. The fellow told me so himself.” “Aye, aye,” said Sir David. “He was only a lad of eighteen when he first came--a great weedy gawk with scared eyes.” “Twenty years haven’t improved upon that. My God! what an existence!” “Well, sir, it may suit a being or not. We ain’t all built for coal-porters. The measure of a man’s work is his willingness to it; and Dennis is no Jackalent for all his diffidence. He knows a spavin from a thrush; and I’ll tell ye somethin’ more--he can put rhymes together equal to Milton or Mr. Pye.” “Umph!” said the other. CHAPTER XV.