gelical in its simplicity. She says that the duke and the tradesman were one and the same; that, severally and jointly, they connived at a masquerade beside which the Carnival of Venice is dreary. She also says that when it occurred to Druce to die, he effected his purpose by filling a coffin with lead, which he took from the roof of the Hendon villa. She says, too, that for a man to die he must be born, and that there is no record of Druce's nativity. What is more to the point, she has shown that the certificate of Druce's death is not attested, and she has further shown that after his supposed demise he was encountered in a state of great liveliness. So strong, she alleges, had the phantom habit become, that one day, long after his shop-folk fancied him safe in his coffin, he shot up through a trap-door among them and frightened them all into fits. But that, though relevant, material and highly amusing, is beside the real issue.
To prove the case, the plantiff obtained an order permitting her to open the coffin. Before it could be executed, its validity was contested and the matter taken to a court of higher jurisdiction, where, after those delays against which even Shakespeare protested, it will be heard anew. Should the petition finally be denied, we suggest, in the interest of all those whom the allegations have entertained, that the coffin be X-rayed. If, then, not dust and ashes, but lead and iron be discovered, Reade, Collins, Stevenson and Payn may hide their diminished ghosts.
But let us consider the matter less seriously. Everything being possible, it may be that the facts are as the plaintiff alleges. We doubt it, however, and that for a reason already advanced. They are too good to be true. Moreover, admitting that a furniture dealer could be wicked enough to play hocus-pocus with himself, it does not follow that he was Duke of Portland, and still less that he killed his brother. On the other hand, if the facts be proven, the career of this surprising peer contains the sublimate of fiction and the quintessence of drama. In conjecturing his enjoyment of it our pen fairly splutters.
For enjoyment, unique if not unalloyed, there must have been. Lord George was found dead in 1840. Druce decided to die in 1864. It was in 1879 that the duke gave up the ghost. Between the first event and the second there was time enough for any fright, however lancinating, to abate, and for any vision, however hallucinating, to subside. Crime has its Statute of Limitations. So, too, has fear.
Now, assuming, for the fun of it, that the facts coincide with the allegations, we may assume, also, that as the years fell by, the duke, whether at Welbeck or at Hendon, must have seen the spectres in his mind take themselves off, little by little, as such spectres do. As they departed, their retreat must have interested him. Were he a student, which is improbable, he must have recalled Bossuet bawling from the pulpit that men carry their hell and their paradise in their hearts. Were he a philanthropist, which is not improbable, he must have taken pleasure in wondering, if stupidity hurt, how many would yell. And if, as is not improbable either, he became with age introspective, he must have taken a real delight in the memories of his spacious career. Instead of being hanged and being done for, Providence had not merely permitted him to continue to live, it had permitted him to lead two lives.
We may assume further that before he died he felt that some day, sooner or later, the truth would be known and shock the middle classes. It may be that he hoped it would. It may be that if he had a regret it was that he would not be here to enjoy it. It is our regret, too. He deserved better things than a posthumous lawsuit. The adventures which he enjoyed, and the frights which he didn't, belong far more to the enchanted tomes of romance than to a clerk's dull chronicle of facts. It
