"Lonely," said I."Not a bit of it," said he.
He died one morning of apoplexy, as he was going to open his outer door.
Fell with his head in his own letter-box, and there he lay for eighteen months.

Everybody thought he'd gone out of town.' 'And how was he found out at last ?' inquired Mr.Pickwick.
'The benchers determined to have his door broken open, as he hadn't paid any rent for two years.

So they did.

Forced the lock; and a very dusty skeleton in a blue coat, black knee-shorts, and silks, fell forward in the arms of the porter who opened the door.

Queer, that.