rosy-cheeked man, turned pale. His gloves lay on the
table at his elbow, and his fingers trembled a little as he picked them
up and began fitting them on with meticulous precision.

"My dear sir!" he said, in a tone that suggested his profession more
strongly than ever. "That's very grave language. As a solicitor, I
should advise you----"

"When I say murderer," continued Brent, "I'm perhaps wrong. I might--and
no doubt ought to--use the plural. Murderers! I believe that more than
one of your rascally Corporation conspired to murder my cousin! And I'm
going to have no blood-stained hypocrites processing after his coffin!
You tell 'em to keep away!"

"I had better withdraw," said the Town Clerk.

"No hurry," observed Brent, changing to geniality. He laid his hand on
the bell. "Have a whisky-and-soda and a cigar? We've finished our
business, and I guess you're a man as well as a lawyer?"

But the visitor was unable to disassociate his personal identity from
his office, and he bowed himself out. Brent laughed when he had gone.

"Got the weight of four hundred and eighty-one years of incorporation on
him!" he said. "Lord! it's like living with generation after generation
of your grandfathers slung round you! Four hundred and eighty-one years!
Must have been in the bad old days when this mouldy town got its
charter!"

Next morning Brent buried the dead Mayor in St. Hathelswide's
Churchyard, privately and quietly. He stayed by the grave until the
sexton and his assistants had laid the green turf over it; that done, he
went round to the Abbey House and sought out Mrs. Saumarez. After his
characteristic fashion he spoke out what was in his mind.

"I've pretty well fixed up, in myself, to do what you suggested last
night," he said, giving her one of his direct glances. "You know what I
mean--to go on with his work."

Mrs. Saumarez's eyes sparkled.

"That would be splendid!" she exclaimed. "But, if he had opposition,
you'll have it a hundred-fold! You're not afraid?"

"Afraid of nothing," said Brent carelessly. "But I just don't know how
I'd get any right to do it. I'm not a townsman--I've no _locus standi_.
But, then he wasn't, to begin with."

"I'd forgotten that," said Mrs. Saumarez. "And you'd have to give up
your work in London--journalism, isn't it?"

"I've thought of that," said Brent. "Well, I've had a pretty good spell
at it, and I'm not so keen about keeping on it any longer. There's other
work--literary