A few moments more and the jury had given their verdict--"the usual one" as the coroner described it--a verdict permitting the corpse to have Christian burial, and all was over. The majority of the jury adjourned to the bar to refresh themselves, and interchange opinions on, what one of them called, "this jolly queer case." The bar-keeper himself joined in the conversation, and Wanless heard him enlarging upon the corruptions of the "Hupper classes," as he followed the Vicar down stairs. But there was no danger that comments of this kind would get into the newspapers. A paragraph about the suicide did, indeed, appear in several morning journals, but there was no mention of the seducer's name. Such a thing as an adjournment to obtain Wiseman's evidence was not even hinted. The coroner, jury, press, and all might have been bought up by the Wiseman family, so discreet was the silence--and, perhaps, some of them were. The press, at all events, was well gagged by an infamous law of libel; and as there had been no sensational or melodramatic incidents connected with the girl's end, it was easy to bury all the story in oblivion--for _time_. The "gallant" Captain might roll serenely on his way. Nothing could disturb him here except disease and the moral leprosy bred of his crimes. "After death comes the judgment." When the little gathering had dispersed, the Vicar and Thomas Wanless found themselves alone together. Both had waited to let the unfamiliar faces disappear. Neither had thought at the moment that this shyness would bring them face to face. The peasant was the first to realise the situation, and as he looked at the broken-down old man before him, he was stirred with pity. On the impulse of the moment he went to where Codling stood, and laying his hand on his arm, said-- "Can I be of any use to you, sir?" The Vicar started and turned hastily away, shaking Thomas's hand from his arm, at the same time answering--"No, no, Thomas Wanless, I have nothing to say to you. You have done me enough mischief for one day!" "I have done you no mischief, sir. God forbid that I should harm you. Had it been possible I would have saved you this pain,--I would have rescued your daughter." "Rescued my daughter, would you?" and Codling laughed a low, bitter laugh. "Rescued my daughter! Why cannot you look after your own, Thomas Wanless? I do not want your help." "I watch for my child night and day," said the peasant solemnly. "It was in seeking her that I met yours--too late. There is ever a prayer in my heart that when I find my Sally I may not be too late for her also. Ah! poor Sally!" he sighed, and the Vicar, taking no more notice of him, he presently added--"Come out of this place, sir. It is not wise for you to stop here when there is so much yet to be done."