Everyone else was willing to let her be, not to drag her and young Lambert into the unpleasant vortex of these proceedings.  Their home was an abode of mourning:  it was proper and seemly for them to remain concealed and silent within their cottage; seemly, too, to have curtained their windows and closed their doors.

No one wished to disturb them; no one but Sir Marmaduke, and with him it was once again that morbid access of curiosity, the passionate, intense desire to know and to probe every tiny detail in connection with his own crime.

“The old woman Lambert should be made to identify the body, before it is buried,” he now repeated with angry emphasis, seeing that a look of disapproval had crossed Squire Boatfield’s pleasant face.

“We are satisfied as to the man’s identity,” rejoined the squire impatiently, “and the sight is not fit for women’s eyes.”

“Nay, then she should be shown the clothes and effects....  And, if I mistake not, there’s Richard Lambert, my late secretary, has he laid sworn information about the man?”

“Yes, I believe so,” said Boatfield with some hesitation.

“Nay, Boatfield, an you are so reluctant to do your duty in this matter, I’ll speak to these people myself....  You are chief constable of the district ... indeed, ’tis you should do it ... and in the meanwhile I pray you, at least to give orders that the coffin be not nailed down.”

The kindly squire would have entered a further protest.  He did not see the necessity of confronting an old woman with the gruesome sight of a mutilated corpse, nor did he perceive justifiable cause for further formalities of identification.

But Sir Marmaduke having spoken very peremptorily, had already turned on his heel without waiting for his friend’s protest, and was striding across the patch of rough stubble, which bordered the railing round the front of the cottage.  Squire Boatfield reluctantly followed him.  The next moment de Chavasse had lifted the latch of the gate, crossed the short flagged path and now knocked loudly against the front door.

Apparently there was no desire for secrecy or rebellion on the part of the dwellers of the cottage, for hardly had Sir Marmaduke’s imperious knock echoed against the timbered walls, than the door was opened from within by Richard Lambert who, seeing the two gentlemen standing on the threshold, stepped back immediately, allowing them to pass.

The old Quakeress and Richard were seemingly not alone.  Two ladies sat in those same straight-backed chairs, wherein, some fifty hours ago Adam Lambert and the French prince had agreed upon that fateful meeting on the brow of the cliff.

Sir Marmaduke’s restless eyes took in at a glance every detail of that little parlor, which he had known so intimately.  The low lintel of the door, which had always forced him to stoop as he entered, the central table with the pewter candlesticks upon it, the elm chairs shining like mirrors in response to the Quakeress’ maddening passion for cleanliness.