If he could read a copy of the “Life of Sternhold Baskette,” perhaps he might be able to get a better understanding of the facts. He deeply regretted now that he had not purchased a copy, as he might have done so easily at Stirmingham, on the stall of the itinerant bookseller. Then he had a little money; now he had none. He called his landlady, took up his great coat, and gave it to her—could she sell it? She looked it over, found many faults, but finally went out with it. In half an hour she returned with eighteen shillings. Aymer had given three pounds for it just before his wedding-day. He paid the old lady her half-crown, and hurried back to Holywell Street. The book he wanted, however, was not so easily to be found. All had heard of it—but no one had it. In time he was directed to a man who dealt in genealogical works, sold deeds, autographs, and similar trash. Here he found the book, and had a haggle for it, finally securing it for seven shillings and sixpence; the fellow would have been glad of three shillings, for it had been on his shelves for years, but Aymer was burning with impatience. In the preface he found a scanty account of the Sibbolds, not one-fifth as much as he had reckoned upon, for the book was devoted to Sternhold, the representative man of the Baskettes. There was, however, a pretty accurate narrative of the murder of Will Baskette, and from that Aymer incidentally obtained much that he wanted. Reflecting upon the murder, and trying to put himself in Arthur Sibbold’s place, Aymer arrived at a nearly perfect conception of the causes which led him to bury himself, as it were, out of sight. One of two things was clear—either Arthur Sibbold had actually participated in the murder, and was afraid of evidence unexpectedly turning up against him; or else he had been deeply hurt with the suspicion that was cast upon him, and had resolved for ever to abandon the home of his ancestors. Probably he had travelled as far as possible from the scene of the murder—perhaps to London (this was the case)—got employment, and, being successful, finally married into the Waldron family, and changed his name. He would naturally be reticent about his ancestors. The next generation would forget all about it, and the third would never think to inquire. Had the vast estate been in existence before Arthur Sibbold’s death, most probably he would have made himself known; but it was clear that it had not grown to one-fiftieth part of its present magnificence till long after.