It was with difficulty Fred found his voice: “I think that I know who it was. It was a--near relation.” “Ah, I can well believe that,” said John Saunderson. He was something of a genealogist himself, as so many people of his class are in country life, and he threw a hasty backward glance over the scions of the house of Yalton, which he had known all his life, and settled within himself that there was no such near relation, no cousin that ever he had heard of. He did not say this, nor his own profound conviction as to the drowned man. “A man,” said Fred, “that we had thought to be dead--for years. He frightened my mother with the likeness you speak of, and I am afraid he did not get a good reception. Oh, Saunderson, you are sure it was not a suicide?” “So far as I could judge--no. I am not surprised,” said Saunderson, “that the mistress was terrified. It gave me a kind of a shock. ‘Lord bless me,’ I said, and then I just held my peace, for I would not be one to raise a scandal on the house of Yalton. But my ostler, confound him, has a long tongue.” “I’m much obliged to you,” said Fred. “I’ll come down.” And there he saw, on the poor bed in the “Dun Cow,” surrounded by the few rustic houses about, all excited and discussing the tragedy, his father, at last hushed and safe, seized by the death which he had cheated once, but could not cheat a second time. The dreadful drowning look had departed from his face; he lay tranquil and calm, like a man who had died in his bed, who had never wronged either man or woman. Whom had he wronged? Perhaps the insurance companies--no one else. And Fred at length came to the conclusion that there was now no occasion to disturb the insurance companies. It had come to pass at last--the event which had been supposed to be accomplished long ago. There was no reason now for the confession he had intended, no need to expose his father’s deception, to betray the secret of the house. Fred could scarcely reconcile himself to the fact that this was so. It cost him a great deal of trouble to make up his mind that his business now--now that all was over, and his father gone for ever--was to be silent for ever. Mr. Wedderburn had been summoned, and this was his advice, as well as the almost imperious command of Fred’s mother. To throw a stain upon her husband’s name was intolerable to Mrs. Dalyell--to attract attention to the house and explain its secret history. She said, with tears, yet with indignation, that it should not, it must not be. And old Pat Wedderburn, who was strangely moved by the story, and who said not a word in blame of his friend, supported her strongly. “They would have had to give the money now, if not then,” he said, “and it’s not your part to open the question. Let it alone. Let him rest in his grave at last--poor Bob! And I hope in my presence no one will ever say an ill word of Bob D’yell.”