Nearly a fortnight elapsed before any reply to Marston's letters was
received. A short epistle at last arrived from Lord H----, the late Sir
Wynston's uncle, deeply regretting the "sad and inexplicable occurrence,"
and adding, that the will, which, on receipt of the "distressing
intelligence," was immediately opened and read, contained no direction
whatever respecting the sepulture of the deceased, which had therefore
better be completed as modestly and expeditiously as possible, in the
neighborhood; and, in conclusion, he directed that the accounts of the
undertakers, &c., employed upon the melancholy occasion, might be sent in
to Mr. Skelton, who had kindly undertaken to leave London without any
delay, for the purpose of completing these last arrangements, and who
would, in any matter of business connected with the deceased, represent
him, Lord H----, as executor of the late baronet.

This letter was followed, in a day or two, by the arrival of Skelton, a
well-dressed, languid, impertinent London tuft-hunter, a good deal faded,
with a somewhat sallow and puffy face, charged with a pleasant
combination at once of meanness, insolence, and sensuality--just such a
person as Sir Wynston's parasite might have been expected to prove.

However well disposed to impress the natives with high notions of his
extraordinary refinement and importance, he very soon discovered that, in
Marston, he had stumbled upon a man of the world, and one thoroughly
versed in the ways and characters of London life. After some ineffectual
attempts, therefore, to overawe and astonish his host, Mr. Skelton became
aware of the fruitlessness of the effort, and condescended to abate
somewhat of his pretensions. Marston could not avoid inviting this
person to pass the night at his house, an invitation which was accepted,
of course; and next morning, after a late breakfast, Mr. Skelton
observed, with a yawn--"And now, about this body--poor Berkley!--what do