"We may as well look, and make a note of it," said Foster; and they accordingly walked up to the stone, the clerk taking out his note-book and pencil.
"Name—so and so," muttered he, as he copied down the inscription: "date, um—thirty-five years ago; age, sixty-nine. Thank you, that will do, friend. Ever married, was he?"
"Married when young, and lost his wife soon after. There's her stone, next his, and that's how I came to know about it."
"Married again, perhaps?"
"No, sir. He wur faithful to his first love, he wur," said the old man, with unction.
"Children, any?"
"Not a chick, sir. And nobody to take his name. His business got sold for what it would fetch, and that and some money he had went, by will, to some far-away cousin. And there was the end of him."
Clearly, there was not much to be made of this information. But a thought suggested itself to Mr. Foster's legal mind. Since property was left behind, and a will for the disposal of it, some lawyer in the town would, in all probability, be acquainted with the late practitioner's signature. And there was the will itself which told of Doctors' Commons.
Making a note of these hints, the adroit clerk turned to the second head of his inquiries—Elizabeth Foold. But here he could obtain no further information than that no family of that name had ever lived in Saddlebrook, to the old sexton's knowledge. Certainly, none such had ever been buried in the graveyard in his time; and none such had ever been married in Saddlebrook Church, he was pretty sure. But the book would show that, and the book was in the parish clerk's keeping, along with the clergyman and the churchwardens.
Setting this aside for the present, therefore, for further research if necessary, the gentleman from Mr. Roundhand's office placed in the old man's hand a fee, which would perhaps have been larger if the success of his inquiries had been more decided.