Even in the first shock of this untimely death, though timely discovery, Mallow kept his wits about him. That Brock was truly Michael Trall he made no doubt. For, in truth, Jeremiah had neither the capacity nor the reason to simulate relationship of the kind. Moreover, nothing surely could be more conclusive than the fatal effect which this unexpected meeting had had for Brock, beside whom now the wretched man dropped into prayer and supplication. He called upon him to recover, implored him for a sign--a look. He wept bitterly. Mallow did not molest him. He was totally unfit for rational conversation. Poor Brock--he may still be called so for the avoidance of confusion--was quite dead. Mallow slipped his hand under his clothes on to the heart to make quite sure. The sight of his brother, and the knowledge of what would follow, had done their work and snuffed him out of this life.
"Come now, Trall," said Mallow. "You must try and pull yourself together, and, what's more, you must not say a word about this. No one must know--understand, Trall, no one. As Mr. Brock he lived--as Mr. Brock he died."
"But he is my own brother Michael."
"I believe you, Trall; but reticence, absolute silence on that point, is necessary, if only for your own safety. Remember the Brotherhood!"
That was quite enough for Trall. He promised implicit obedience. "And I'll sit in this corner as quiet as a mouse, Mr. Mallow," he concluded, "if only you'll let me. Don't! oh, don't take me away."
"Well, you may remain there for the present. But, remember, not a word to any one about this."
Mallow deemed it advisable to alarm the household. He rang the bell, and the acidulated housekeeper duly appeared. She immediately lost all control of herself. She cried out aloud, and gesticulated wildly. Her fellow-servants followed suit, and in a very few moments the usually tranquil Vicarage was a very pandemonium of weeping and wailing Promptly Mallow sent a messenger for Mr. Timson, and another for Lord Aldean, with strict injunctions not in any way to alarm the ladies at the Manor House. He determined not to leave the place himself until he had possession of the cipher-diary. Seeing now that without doubt this was Michael Trall, he expected much in the way of revelation from the diary. It is a passion with some of perverted instincts to set down their deeds and misdeeds in black and white, and such documents are invariably to be relied upon. They are usually perfectly unfettered in their utterance--the tangible communion of such people with themselves. Mallow anticipated difficulty only so far as the unravelling of the cipher was concerned. This might prove obstinately difficult, or it might not. But, he argued, there was no cipher invented by man that man could not unravel--and unravel it he would, even though he took years in the doing of it. It remained now to secure the document itself. Within an hour Mr. Timson arrived, and seemed in nowise astonished at the suddenness of Mr. Brock's death.
"Just what I expected," he chirped in his pessimistic way. "Cardiac failure--pure and simple. He was excited in some way, I presume, Mr. Mallow?
"Yes; he became very excited while I was talking with him," said Laurence, evasively.
"Quite so--quite so. I warned him. I told him how it would be. Dear, dear! Most regrettable, but natural all the same--quite natural." Mr. Timson was moved not a hair's-breadth from his habitual complacency.