To the vault they went, and found Jarks showing the outside of it to a crowd of morbid sightseers. Indeed, the tragedy had drawn people from far and near to Heathton, and the usually quiet place buzzed like a hive. Mrs. Timber was making her fortune, and blessed the day she had turned Cicero the tramp out of her house. To him alone did Mrs. Timber ascribe the theft of the body. As to his connection with the murder of Dr. Warrender, she was not so certain. "Come, come!" cried Mr. Phelps, in his fussy manner, on finding Jarks haranguing the crowd. "This is most ridiculous--most out of place. Jarks, I am astonished at your desecrating the graveyard in this way." "No desecration, reverend sir," said Jarks, in his rusty voice, "I wos only showing 'em where I laid Muster Marlow by, comfortable. Go----" "Go away--go away, all of you!" "Come on to the right!" shouted Jarks. "I'll show 'ee where a soocide as they brought in crazy is tucked away. A lovely grave with a good view, an' as nice a stone as I iver seed. In my young days he'd have been buried in cross-roads with a stake, but they do trate 'em kindly nowadays. Ah yis. This way to the soocide, neighbors!" And Jarks headed the crowd to the other side of the graveyard. The keen, cold eye of Inspector Blair cleared them out more quickly than Jarks' invitation. "Dear me! most indiscreet of Jarks!" said the Rector, opening the door of the vault. "Come in, Mr. Inspector. Here's a candle. Tut, tut! I've burnt my fingers. Deuce take---- Hum--God forgive me for bad language! This is the niche, Mr. Inspector; yonder the coffin--a very handsome one. The lead is cut, you perceive. Ah, poor soul! And we meant it to last till the Great Day." While the Rector ran on in this fashion, Blair the silent examined the empty coffin. He noted that the lead casing had been cut with a sharp instrument, and very neatly done--so neatly that the inspector became thoughtful. "That wasn't done by a man in a hurry," he mused. But he said nothing, and merely turned to Mr. Phelps with a question: "Who screwed down the coffin?" "Who?--bless me, let me think! Yes, yes. Dr. Warrender--poor soul!--and Joe Brill. Faithful fellow, Joe! Would see the last of his master." "Wasn't the undertaker present?" "Crank? Well, yes, he was. But I am sorry to say, Mr. Inspector"--here the face of the Rector became severe--"that on that day Crank was intoxicated." "H'm! Who made him drunk?" "Himself, I suppose," rejoined Mr. Phelps, a trifle tartly. "Crank requires no one to tempt him." "Few men do, sir," said Blair, and again examined the coffin. He passed his long, delicate hand over every inch of it, particularly fingering the lid; then he looked round the niche where it rested, peered into the others, and considered well all that he saw, while Mr. Phelps chattered. "Quite so," said the detective at length; "let us go outside."