To my own relief, my examination was not a long one. I had not known the deceased⁠—I had never seen him⁠—I was not aware of his presence at Old Welmingham⁠—and I had not been in the vestry at the finding of the body. All I could prove was that I had stopped at the clerk’s cottage to ask my way⁠—that I had heard from him of the loss of the keys⁠—that I had accompanied him to the church to render what help I could⁠—that I had seen the fire⁠—that I had heard some person unknown, inside the vestry, trying vainly to unlock the door⁠—and that I had done what I could, from motives of humanity, to save the man. Other witnesses, who had been acquainted with the deceased, were asked if they could explain the mystery of his presumed abstraction of the keys, and his presence in the burning room. But the coroner seemed to take it for granted, naturally enough, that I, as a total stranger in the neighbourhood, and a total stranger to Sir Percival Glyde, could not be in a position to offer any evidence on these two points.