Frances was incoherently explaining to Sir William when Lady Wentworth came down the steps and led her into the house. Then the doors were opened wide, and poor old Roger's body was carried reverently to the best parlor. The following morning, when I was notified that Frances was at Sir William's house, I went to see her and learned the particulars of the tragedy, though she said nothing at that time about having recognized any of the highwaymen, and seemed strangely reluctant to talk about the affair. On the fourth day after Roger's death he was buried in Saint-Martin's-in-the-Fields churchyard, good Sir William taking the only means in his power to express his love for his brother by an elaborate funeral. Never were there more beautiful hatchments seen in London. They bore Roger's humble coat-of-arms, half in white and half in black, to denote that the deceased had left a widow. Never were there more nor finer white mourning scarfs distributed among the mourners, and never in the memory of man had so much burnt sherry been served at a funeral. These extraordinary arrangements attracted a great deal of attention throughout London and caused Roger's murder to be talked about far and near. The result of this publicity was that the city authorities set on foot an investigation which soon brought Wentworth, Crofts, and Berkeley under suspicion. The sheriffs, however, kept their suspicions to themselves, and I heard only faint whispers of what was going on. After the funeral Lady Wentworth invited Frances to be her guest for a week or two, and upon my advice the invitation was accepted. Two or three days after the funeral, while Frances and I were walking out together, she complained of young Wentworth's attentions. "To-day he put his arm about me," she said, laughing, though indignant. "And what did you say and do?" I asked. "I simply remarked that I disliked the touch of half-witted persons, whereupon he declared that he had wit enough to be offended. Then I told him he should thank heaven for the small favor and pray God to help him use it." After cautioning her to secrecy, I told her of the ugly whispers that were abroad connecting young Wentworth, Crofts, and Berkeley with the murder of old Roger. "No, no!" she cried, greatly agitated. "I saw the two men who did it. I saw them in the light of Noah's lanthorn. Neither of them was young Wentworth." I at once grew interested and asked her to describe the men she saw. "No, no, no!" she cried vehemently, almost hysterically. I thought she was going to weep, so I said in haste:-- "Don't weep, Frances! You must forget." She looked quickly up to me and answered: "I am not weeping. There is not a tear in me. I have wept until I am dry." "But your grief is unreasonable," I returned. "Roger was your friend, I know, but his death does not call for so great sorrowing." "No, no, it is not that, Baron Ned. You don't know. I can't tell you. Please do not speak of this terrible affair again."