Rupert was very well satisfied when he received Dorinda's note, as he had winced at the idea of Inspector Lawson intervening. He, of course, had been very certain that there was no chance of his being arrested, owing to the fact that the will could not be proved to exist. Still, Lawson was ambitious of promotion and obstinate in his own opinion, therefore, if Mallien had told his story, there might have been a chance of scandal. However, Dorinda having reduced her father to neutrality, the only thing that remained to do was to find the will. Rupert intended to search again among the papers at the Vicarage; but could not do so until the afternoon, as Carrington had sent a wire saying he would be down by the midday express. The Squire intended to meet him at the station, and talk to him on the way home, since he was anxious to know what was the best way to deal with the treacherous Mrs. Beatson. Knowing that she was a spy and an enemy, Rupert could hardly bear to see her about the house. However, he tolerated her presence until he heard what Carrington had to say. By this time, all excitement had died out of the village, as the crime had been so thoroughly discussed that there was no more to be said about the matter. In their stolid bovine way, the rustics accepted the positive fact that their late spiritual adviser was dead and buried--accepted, also, the evident truth that the murderer would never be caught and punished. This being the case, they dismissed the past, and looked eagerly forward to the future when the new incumbent would arrive. It was reported that a vicar had already been appointed by the Bishop and that he had a family, and would make the Vicarage a much more lively place than it had been in Mr. Leigh's time. Oh, there was plenty to talk about and _The Hendle Arms_ was filled with conversational yokels from morning until evening. On the way to the station, Rupert stumbled across Titus Ark, who grinned in a toothless manner, touched his shabby hat, and shuffled along in a manner surprisingly spry for a man of eighty-odd years of age. Hendle stopped to give him a sixpence for snuff, to which the ancient was much addicted. "You miss Mr. Leigh, Titus," he said, pityingly, for the old man was a lonely figure in the midst of the new generation. "Hor! Hor! Hor!" croaked the aged sexton. "Why should I miss him Squoire when he bain't dead?" "Why, Titus, you buried him--that is, you helped to place the body in the family vault. Poor Mr. Leigh could not have been buried alive." "Who said as he was alive, Squoire? I never did." "You say that he isn't dead." "No more he be." "Then he must be alive." "No, he bain't. Hor! Hor! Hor! Crack that nut, Squoire!" and the ancient shuffled along the dry dusty road, chuckling to himself.