When the Coroner was at last called in, he was astounded at the verdict delivered to him by the foreman—“Wilful murder against a person, or persons, unknown.” He argued with them, but in vain; the twelve had made up their minds and were firm as a rock. He had to submit with a bad grace! Poor Sally had a moment of joy, and clasped her husband’s neck, but it was of brief duration. A minute afterwards the police sergeant present tapped Jenkins on the shoulder, and took him in custody on a charge of murder. This is the peculiarity of the law in such cases. A suspected person has to run the gauntlet of two bodies—first, the coroner’s jury; next, the magistrates. Many a wretch who has escaped the one has been trapped by the other to his doom. The handcuffs were slipped on the gardener’s wrists and he was led away unresistingly, followed by his weeping wife and a crowd of the villagers. As the jury emerged from the Shepherd’s Bush, which was not till afternoon—for they had stayed to spend their ninepenny fees—there struck on their ears a mournful sound. It was the tolling of the village bell. The medical man had recommended immediate interment. Only three days before those bells had merrily rung for the daughter’s bridal; now they tolled for the father’s burial. They hastened to the church and watched the solemn ceremony. The low broken voice of the vicar failed at the words, as they stood by the open vault—“He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow... In the midst of life we are in death;” and the rest of the service was nearly inaudible. Chapter Seven. Every one knows what a dull monotony of sorrow succeeds to a great loss. Perhaps it was fortunate for Violet that her mind was in some small measure withdrawn from too consuming grief by the unfortunate position of the poor old gardener. Over the very grave of the dead, as it were, she quarrelled—the word is hardly too strong—with Merton. Mr Merton was bitter against Jenkins. His professional mind, always ready to put the worst aspect upon anything, quick to suspect and slow to relinquish an idea, was convinced of the gardener’s guilt. In his zeal for the memory of his poor friend, he forgot that he might be injuring an innocent man. He even went so far as to speak strongly to Violet about her visit to the jury. Surely she should have been the last to protect the murderer. He said something like this in the heat of his temper, and regretted it afterwards. It was cruel, unjust, and inconsiderate. Violet simply left the room and refused to see him.