“No, no one; I heard and saw nothing but what I have told you,” replied Spenser Churchill, quietly.
“Hem! I don’t quite see. It would appear as if there had been a shock——”
“Is that absolutely necessary?” suggested Spenser Churchill, softly. “In heart disease death may result—I speak with deference—without any shock or excitement.”
“Oh, quite so, quite so,” assented the doctor. “The deceased might have died at any moment—in his bed, or during his ordinary avocations. Oh, yes.”
“I am relieved to hear you say that,” said Spenser Churchill. “I am so anxious, on Miss Marlowe’s account, to avoid an inquest.”
“Quite so, quite so. There will be no necessity. Did you know the deceased?”
“I knew something of him some years ago,” replied Spenser Churchill; “but we have not met for a long period; indeed, it must be ten or fifteen years. I only knew him quite slightly, and had not seen him of late, even at a distance. It was quite a shock to me, recognizing him lying there on the grass, dead!”
“I dare say,” said the doctor, quite sympathetically. “And now, what is to be done?—I mean, with reference to this poor young girl.”
“If you will leave it to me,” murmured Spenser Churchill, meekly, “I will do all that lies in my power. She may have relations and friends. I will ascertain from her, and communicate with them. You may trust me to do all that I can to soften the terrible blow for the poor young creature.”
The doctor took his hand and wrung it.