There are coffins in the London cemeteries which contain no bodies. Over some of the graves there are memorial stones, and, as in Wilkie Collins' famous story, "The Woman in White," it sometimes happens that the "dead person" goes to the cemetery and reads the touching tribute to his or her virtues.
It may even be—I have heard the story told—that the dear departed will go to the cemetery once a year and lay a memorial wreath upon her own grave.
These are the mysteries of the dead. The mysteries of the living are hidden away, sometimes in their own hearts, sometimes in the keeping of the family solicitor, who has many a startling romance locked away in the safes and tin boxes that line the walls of his quiet office.
I sat the other day in the private office of a famous solicitor who is the confidant of the secrets of many of our titled families, and of some of the most prominent members of the Smart Set.
As I chatted pleasantly with the famous lawyer, I could not help thinking what a marvellous series of "Mysteries of modern London" he could write if he were not, by reason of his office and his own high sense of personal honour, bound to preserve silence.
In the quiet, old-fashioned little room in which I sat, looking out upon an ancient burial ground, some of the most sensational stories of the day have been told, and, by the skill of the diplomatic solicitor, brought to a satisfactory last chapter, and then consigned to the oblivion of the locked safe, of which he alone carries the key.
For most of the mysteries that have been brought to this cosy little room have been settled there. They have not had to endure the glare of the Law Courts and the fierce publicity of the Press. Had they done so the world would have had some startling sensations, which would have put many that are thrillingly headlined by the popular Press far back into the shade.
It is not often in this country that we have the mystery of the concealed identity in the criminal dock. No advocate rises at the Old Bailey and endeavours to influence a jury by hinting that the prisoner on trial for his life is the son of some great personage. "If you knew who I was," exclaimed Prado, "you would be astounded," and his advocate repeated his words.
We have no guilty wretches posing in the dock and pretending that by their silence they are screening a name which is dearer to them than life. Something of that kind was, it is true, attempted by Mrs. Pearcy (Mary Eleanor Wheeler), the murderess of Mrs. Hogg and her child, who arranged that after her death an advertisement should be inserted in all the principal Madrid papers.
The advertisement duly appeared: