Ричард Марш
The Twickenham Peerage

CHAPTER IX
DEAD

I am inclined to think that I had not given Mr. Montagu Babbacombe credit for all the cleverness he possessed. I began, indeed, to suspect that to his cleverness-if it was only cleverness-there were no limits. While we stared and wondered, a waiter entered the room with a card on a salver, which he brought to me. It was Edith's card. On it she had pencilled a line:

'I am here with Violet. Can't I see him? I should like to.'

'Let her come! Let her come!'

The instruction-it amounted to that-came from the man in the bed. It seemed that he had not only known that the women were in the house before I had had any intimation of their presence, and that the knowledge had prompted him to make his remark, but it also appeared that he knew what was written on that card. Was the fellow possessed of the occult powers of which we read in fairy-books? While the others eyed me askance, inquiring his meaning, I eyed him.

As a matter of fact I welcomed neither Edith nor Violet. I had far rather they both of them had kept away. The business on hand was one with which I desired that they should have no sort of connection. It was bad enough that I should be entering, with my eyes wide open, into such a sea of falsehood. That they should soil even the hem of their skirts by standing, unwittingly, upon the edge was a notion I did not fancy. They were stainless: above reproach. It was my business to keep them so. It did not matter so much for me.

Yet I did not see how I could prevent them coming if they chose to come, even into that atmosphere of foul fraud and lying; especially if my friend, the dying man, desired their presence. The motive which had brought Edith I could understand. After all, Twickenham had been the playmate of her childish days. And he had wooed and won her dearest friend, who still waited, in full confidence, his coming. But why Violet? The man had not even a pseudo-sentimental attraction for her. I turned to the waiter.

'Tell the ladies I will be with them directly.'

The dying man was not to be balked. He evinced a degree of vigour which was altogether beyond anything he had previously shown.

'Let them come! Let them come!' he repeated.

He stretched out his hand, from which the pen dropped out unused, in such a condition of tremulous agitation that Hancock promptly laid him back upon the pillow.

'Gently! Gently! Don't excite yourself, my lord; be calm! What does he mean?' he asked me. I perforce explained.

'Miss Desmond is below, and wishes to know if she may come up.'

'Let her come!' gasped the invalid.

'Better humour him,' murmured Hancock.

'I will go down and speak to her.'

But when I prepared to go the patient shook his head at me in a frenzy of excitement; struggling all the while for breath in a fashion which it was not agreeable to witness. Hancock strove to soothe him.

'Gently, my lord, gently.'

'He's-he's not-to-go. Let them-let them-come.'

'It appears, Mr. Howarth, that his lordship would like Miss Desmond to come without your going to fetch her. Can you not send a message through the waiter?' He added, sotto voce, 'Better do as he wishes; she'll get no harm.'

I had my doubts; but I directed the waiter as Hancock desired. As soon as he was gone Foster returned to the charge.

'Now, if your lordship will be pleased to attach your signature.'

The sick man would have none of him. He merely continued to mumble:

'Let them-come! Let them-come!'

It was clear that the completion of that will would have to be postponed. Foster's chagrin was obvious. To his legal mind form and precedent were everything. What does it matter if we die, so long as our affairs are left in order? To have been so near the attainment of his wishes-for it had looked as if the wily sinner was about to sign-only to be disappointed after all, was a severe trial to his sense of professional propriety. For my part, on that point at least, I was at ease. I was persuaded that Reggie would not find so many thorns in his path as his man of business predicted.

While the sick man mumbled, I regarding him askance, with half an eye on Foster's discomfiture, in came Edith, with Violet at her heels. I had not meant that Violet should come, too, and made a half-step forward to request her to withdraw. But both Reggie and Hancock were in front of me. Reggie made a dash towards Vi, the physician appropriating Edith. Indeed he assumed command of both; his remarks being addressed to the pair. He spoke in a sort of stage aside; his words being perfectly audible to me.

'My dear Miss Desmond! My dear Lady Violet! Our long-lost friend is in a sad way; very, very sad. At any moment the end may come. But he expresses such a desire to see you, and shows so much impatience at the idea of your being kept from him that I thought we might venture. Only be careful not to agitate him.'

'Our long-lost friend' showed impatience then and there.

'What's he-what's he-gabbling about? – the man! Let them come!'

Hancock shrugged his shoulders; he dropped his voice.

'You hear? – Such language! But you mustn't mind.' He brought them forward. 'Here, my dear lord, are two ladies who have come to see you-Miss Desmond and Lady Violet Howarth.'

'Edith?' He hit upon her surname; he alone knew how. 'You're an old woman-aren't you?'

That was a civil thing to say, – particularly from a man in his position. I could have shaken him again. Edith only smiled.

'I'm not so young as I was. But you're not an old man, and I'm younger than you.'

'Old? – I am old. Rotten. Done. I feel a thousand. The years lie heavy-on me. I was-never-young.'

The thing was curiously true of Twickenham. He never had been young. Mentally, physically, and morally, he had been born old. As a boy he had all an old man's vices. As Edith perceived what a wreck the creature seemed I saw that tears were in her eyes.

'I am sorry to meet you, after all these years, like this. Poor Leonard!'

She stretched out her hand to touch his brow. I could have snatched it back. He lay perfectly still, staring up at her with fixed, unseeing eyes.

'Why-sorry?'

'I had hoped it would all have seemed so different.'

'It's all right. I've had enough. Glad it's over.'

'Are you in pain?'

'Pains of hell.'

He said this, in his tremulous, croaking tones, with a depth of sincerity which impressed even me. The fellow was a past master of his art, or in possession of unholy powers. Edith's hand visibly trembled.

'Poor Leonard!'

'Soon-over. Who's the girl?'

'This is Violet Howarth-Douglas's sister. Vi, you remember Twickenham? This is Reggie's brother.'

Vi said nothing; possibly because she had nothing to say. She surveyed the object in front of her with looks which were a blend of pity, curiosity, and, unless I err, disgust. She had, perhaps, more than her share of the severity of youth, and I knew what she had thought of the man she supposed herself to be looking at. He spoke to her, with the same request which he had made to Reggie.

'Come-closer; lean-down.'

I believe that Vi rebelled; but when Edith touched her on the shoulder she did as he asked. Whereupon he went through the same performance with which he had favoured Reggie; putting up his hand, and examining her features with his finger-tips.

'You're a pretty girl-but – hard.'

It was not surprising that the blood flamed through her skin, although, saving the perhaps unnecessary vigour of the adjective, the thing was true enough. When she likes she can be as hard as nails.

'Why don't you-marry-Reggie?'

'I'm going to, when you're dead.'

I fancy, in her impetuous fashion, that the words were out of her mouth before she was able to stop them. They were out, anyhow; creating a small sensation. It is a common feeling that a deathbed, even of such a character as Twickenham had been, is a place where one ought only to say sentimental and, also, agreeable things; especially young women. One wants to keep the clear, dry light of truth outside. Vi turned white; then red again. Reggie endeavoured to insinuate her hand in his; by way, perhaps, of expressing his sympathy. But she would have none of it. She took her hand away. The sick man's comment showed that his wits moved pretty quickly.

'A nice-wife-you'll make him. He'll be married-and done for-when he's got you.'

Unmistakably a retort quivered on the young lady's tongue. Edith, slipping her arm about her, restrained its utterance.

'It's all right, Vi,' she whispered. Instead, therefore, of that retort, Vi addressed him an inquiry, in even, measured tones.

'Have you quite finished with me?'

'What a girl! Doug-she does you-proud.'

A peculiar sound proceeded from his throat, which was perhaps intended for a chuckle. His hand dropped. Vi stood up. We were silent. A feeling of awkwardness was in the air; a consciousness that Vi had struck an inharmonious note. Hancock relieved the situation-or tried to.

'I think now, my lord, if you were to take a little sleep.'

'Hang-sleep. Shan't I-have enough-sleep soon?'

Foster proffered his suggestion.

'Will your lordship be pleased to attach your signature?'

'Foster!'

'My lord?'

'Give me the will.'

Foster advanced the sheet of paper, on the blotting-pad, and a pen, newly dipped in ink. To the pen the sick man paid no heed.

'The will?'

'Here is the will.'

'Give it-to me.'

The lawyer held out the sheet of paper. The sick man took it, and tore it in half. It was rather a niggling process: he made one or two abortive attempts. But the result was unmistakable. Two crumpled fragments represented the document which Foster had deemed of such importance. Its destroyer made a single remark.

'I-hate-wills.'

The lawyer's face was a study. There was a common feeling that Violet's behaviour had something to do with what had happened. I think that for little he would have told her so, in language of vigour. Perhaps her own conscience assailed her. She whispered to Reggie:

'What's he torn?'

'His will.'

'His will? What was in it?'

'Everything to me.'

'Everything? Reggie, you don't mean that you'll have nothing then?'

'Not so bad as that. – Hush.'

The admonition was only administered in the nick of time. Then came a voice from the bed.

'That girl's – tongue! She's a-jade, Reggie!'

'Yes.'

'You'll be a fool-if you marry her. Don't you do it.'

Reggie spoke hotly in reply. 'You don't know what you're talking about.'

'You-you-young devil-speak to me like that? Foster.'

'My lord?' Hancock interposed.

'I beg, my lord, that you will not excite yourself.'

'Excite myself! What in thunder do you mean? I'll do-what I please-with myself.' He was illumined by a sudden burst of really vigorous passion; actually raising himself in bed to give it tongue. He spoke with an amount of fluency which after the recent struggle he had made to utter disconnected words was surprising. 'I'm not dead yet, so don't let any one order me about as if I were-curse you, you bald-headed old fool!' This was to Hancock; the top of whose scalp is smooth. 'I'm not going to have my brother mixed up with a bold-faced judy; he's not going to make a girl of whom I disapprove the Marchioness of Twickenham. I tell you, Foster, that if Reggie marries that jade-if he marries-if he-'

He stopped as if at a loss for a word. Then a shudder passed all over him; his whole frame became perceptibly rigid; he dropped back, still. Hancock turned to us.

'I think if one of you gentlemen were to take the ladies out. I'm afraid this may be serious.'

As we were going, the door opened to admit Dr. Robert White. I welcomed him.

'Dr. White, you are just in time. I don't know if you are known to Sir Gregory Hancock. Your patient has just had a relapse.'

The two doctors bent together in consultation over the bed. Edith touched me on the arm.

'Let us wait,' she whispered.

Presently Hancock spoke to Reggie.

'My lord marquis, it becomes my painful duty to inform you that your brother is dead.'

It was a diplomatic way of announcing the news. Vi, as usual, told the truth with too much candour: 'He was a wicked man; he died as he had lived.'

Hancock shook his head.

'Of the dead, my dear young lady, let no man speak ill.'

I led her from the room, Edith following with Reggie. So soon as I got her outside I started to scold her there and then.

'I need not tell you, Violet, that you have behaved very badly.'

'You should not have let him touch me. I could not bear his fingers against my skin.' She shuddered at the recollection. 'Those dreadful hands! To think of all they've done!'

'You might at least have remembered that the man was on the threshold of the grave. One day you may yourself stand in need of a lenient judgment.'

'I wish I'd never seen him.'

'I wish it also. The mischief you have done is irrevocable. If it hadn't been for you a will would be in existence by the terms of which Reggie would be in indisputable possession of everything.'

'But, surely, the destruction of that piece of paper will make no difference.'

'Won't it? You wait till you hear what Foster has to say.'

'Reggie, is it true that I've done you so much harm?'

'My dear Vi, you've done me no harm at all. Douglas exaggerates. If I had been in your place I should have said and done exactly what you said and did. But, come-hadn't you better go? There's no use your staying now. We'll follow you as soon as we can.'

As we were going down the stairs I heard her whisper in his ear-'My lord marquis!'

What he said I did not catch; but it was something which made her smile.

So they went, and we were left to minister to the dead man.

CHAPTER X
AND BURIED

On one point it was absolutely essential that I should know at once exactly where I stood. I settled it as we were returning up the stairs.

'Reggie, there is one thing I wish to say. I will do everything for Twickenham that remains to be done.'

'You mean as regards the funeral and that kind of thing?'

'I do. If you will leave everything to me I will make all necessary arrangements.'

'Thank you. That's one more service. I wonder for how many things I am really in your debt, besides bread and cheese, and-even kisses.'

'Don't talk nonsense.'

'It's not nonsense. And it'll have to be talked about some day. My turn's coming.'

'We've been in stormy waters; if now we're going to sail over summer seas together, I'll be content.'

'I'll see we do.'

I had not the slightest doubt of it. And I also would see. The time of the harvest was at hand. I was quite ready to take my share of the golden grain.

The doctor was chatting to Foster. Striding up to the bed I looked down on the recumbent figure.

'I suppose, gentlemen, that there's no doubt whatever that he's dead?'

Hancock was unable to conceal his amusement.

'Are you suggesting, Mr. Howarth, that we don't know our business, or that I don't know mine? That is the late Marquis; the present Marquis is here.' He motioned with one hand towards the bed, with the other towards Reggie. To Reggie he addressed himself. 'I beg, my lord, to offer you my congratulations. I will not disguise from you that I am aware that this is an occasion on which you are entitled to receive them. We all know that your late brother was not all that he ought to be, and that he has been to you the occasion of great, long-continued, and undeserved anxiety. That burden has now been happily removed. I am sure that in the future your noble house will be worthily represented.'

'Thank you. I hope you're right.'

After all, Hancock was a prosy old fool.

'Is there anything else I can do for you, or arrange before I go? Dr. White has kindly promised to see that the late Marquis receives all proper attention.'

'Much obliged; but Mr. Howarth will see to everything.'

'I will see to the funeral.' This was Foster.

'Well, Mr. Howarth has undertaken-'

'Quite right, Reggie, I will see to everything-including the funeral, Mr. Foster. We don't propose to trouble you more than we can help.'

Mr. Foster made a few remarks to Reggie which were also meant for me.

'I trust, my lord, that my attitude towards you in the past will not be misconstrued. As I did what I held to be my duty towards your brother, so I will observe equal fidelity towards you. If it should be happily shown-which I do not doubt it will be-that you are now the Marquis and in possession of the family estates, I will study your interests with the same honesty of purpose with which I studied his.'

'Very good of you, Foster. You shall hear from me in due course.'

Reggie turned on his heel; and the great, and hitherto supreme, Mr. Foster, was snubbed. It was injudicious, perhaps, but we both of us owed him a good deal more than a snubbing.

At last Reggie and I were alone. The first thing he said, directly their backs were turned, showed what was in his mind.

'It would be awkward if what that brute Foster keeps hinting at was true, and Twickenham was married.'

'No fear of that. He wasn't. Twickenham wasn't a marrying man.'

'Let's hope it. A wife and family of his would be a crowning mercy.'

'There's not the slightest fear of anything of the kind. I'm sure of it. It's Foster's cue to make you fidgety. Don't you let him have the satisfaction of thinking that he even retains the power of making himself disagreeable.'

Reggie was observing the silent figure.

'He does look a bad lot, even now.'

'He was.'

'Vi was quite right; he died as he had lived. I believed that if he had had a few minutes longer he would have robbed me of all he could.'

'I shouldn't be surprised; the ruling passion strong in death.'

Presently he departed. I was alone with the man in the bed.

It was a curious sensation. It had all been so much easier than I had ever ventured to hope. So quickly over too. The idea which had been only mooted yesterday was already carried out. And in such triumphant fashion. And we had waited fifteen years! But then during that period I had never lighted on a Mr. Montagu Babbacombe. The man was a consummate actor; altogether beyond anything I had ever seen or heard of. On the stage his fame would fill the world; and then ring down the ages. The arch-impostor had duped them all; with the most ridiculous ease. No wonder; on one or two points he had deceived even me-whose idea the whole thing was. The death certificate would be forthcoming-poor old Hancock's conduct had been fatuous. This was a great physician! If all documents of the kind are granted with equal readiness, how many people are buried alive? The reflection was not an agreeable one. The recognition in each case had been unhesitating. Even that Didymus, Foster, was persuaded at last. There only remained one or two trifling details which required attention, and the stakes were ours.

I was a little at a loss how exactly to proceed. The key had been turned to prevent untoward interruption, but still the fact remained that voices might be audible without. If we were heard-or even if I was heard, I might be asked whom I was talking to, – which, conceivably, might be awkward. Obviously, it was a case for the extremest caution.

I leant over the bed, and I whispered,

'Babbacombe!'

He did not answer. I had not expected he would. By now I had gained some insight into his methods.

'I only want to tell you that I understand a woman's coming to wash you; "lay you out," I believe, they call it. I suppose you don't object?'

Not a sign; not a sound.

'That's all right; I don't suppose she'll worry you overmuch. By the way, where have you put that money? I don't want to know; only women of that kind are as sharp as needles; and not over scrupulous either. If you like to confide it to my keeping it will be quite safe in my charge, and you can have it whenever you want it, with the other five hundred, as you know very well.'

Nothing to show he heard.

I turned down the bedclothes, thinking that he might have slipped the notes between the sheets. Not he! Nothing in the shape of a bank-note was to be seen. My curiosity being piqued-the depths of this man really were too deep! – I looked for them in every place I could think of, subjecting the whole bed to a minute examination; he evincing not the slightest apparent interest in my proceedings. Not the vestige of a note. Could he have swallowed them? If he had not, I could not conceive what had become of them. They were not upon his body. They could hardly, at his bidding, have vanished into air. Although I was quite prepared to admit that, 'for ways that are dark,' compared to him the Heathen Chinee was an innocent suckling.

'Well, as I can't find it I imagine that the woman won't; so I suppose I make take it that the money's safe. There's only one other topic on which I wish to touch-the funeral. The undertaker's man will come and measure you to-day. The shell, and, I presume, the coffin also, will arrive to-morrow morning. You'll be placed inside, and, in the afternoon, the coffin will be closed. It will be taken down in the evening by a special train to Cressland-where you may, or may not, be aware is the family vault-the interment taking place on Wednesday. As we are none of us particularly proud of you, the interment will be as private as possible. As, I take it, you don't want to be inside the coffin when it's placed in its last resting-place, I'll look in before the undertaker's fellows; you must give up being dead, and, between us, we'll screw down the lid. I'll find an excuse which will satisfy them. I have an idea in this fertile brain of mine. – You clearly understand and agree. Say so if you don't!'

He said nothing, nor signified in any way whatever that he had attained to even a glimmer of comprehension. But I knew him. Taking his immobility to signify acquiescence, I left him asleep upon the bed.

But though I left him he was with me all the time. I could not get him out of my head. I interviewed the landlord, with whom I made arrangements on a very liberal scale to compensate him for the inconvenience the affair was causing him; and all the while that we were talking I saw, with my mental eye, the silent figure on the bed!

Thence I went to Tattenham, the funeral furnisher. The figure was with me there. I wondered what my feelings would be if I knew that I was being measured for my coffin. With what amount of ceremony would the measurer treat me? To be touched for such a purpose by such hands! I feared that under his kind offices I should not lie so still as I trusted Mr. Montagu Babbacombe would do.

At home I found, as I expected, Edith and Reggie confabulating with Violet. As I also expected, Vi began at me at once-though her tone and bearing were alike surprising. She was unwontedly meek.

'Doug'-it was very rarely that she called me 'Doug,' I had rather she had not done so then. I had too recently heard the abbreviation proceeding from other lips-'Doug, I'm sorry I behaved so badly. I know I was a wretch. Edith has made me see that, and it's no use Reggie pretending that I wasn't.'

My manner was brusque. It was a subject about which I wished to hear nothing more.

'That's all right. I wouldn't be too penitent if I were you. There was no harm done.'

'But it prevented him making his will?'

'If it did it did; and what's done can't be undone. Not that I think it matters.'

'Don't you really think it matters? Supposing any of those things happen at which it seems that Mr. Foster hinted; what then?'

'What then? Wait till then. Till then say nothing.'

I do not think she altogether grasped my meaning. Indeed I doubt if I myself clearly understood what it was I wished to say. I told them what arrangements I was making with regard to the funeral, and so on, Reggie showing himself quite of my opinion that everything should be done as quietly as possible. Had the third marquis died, after a well-ordered life, in the odour of sanctity, his corpse might have been interred with all possible honour; as things were, it was advisable that he should be laid in his last resting-place with as little form and ceremony as was compatible with decency.

When I left the room, anxious to be by myself, to think, Edith followed me. For the first time in my life I found her presence irksome. She followed me to the small apartment which I dignified by the name of library, evidently assured of the welcome which hitherto had never failed her.

'At last!' she began, as soon as we were alone together. I busied myself with some papers which were on my writing-table.

'Yes; at last.'

'We have waited for it a good many years; you and I.'

'That is so.'

This was platitudinous. I felt that if she had nothing more original to say I should have to ask her to excuse me if I gave my attention to matters which pressed. Her words, her voice, her very neighbourhood, seemed to have a singular effect upon my nervous system. It was as if I were ashamed. In some curious way, it was as if I were afraid of her. I wanted to take her in my arms; to hold her to me; to find strength in her sweet tenderness; for it was strength I needed. But I was conscious of an awkward inability to do as I had done a hundred times before-ay, a thousand. A shadowy something seemed to have interposed itself between us, as her own quick sight perceived.

'What is the matter with you, Douglas?'

The question took me aback. I looked up at her with a start, experiencing an unwonted difficulty in meeting her inquiring glances.

'The matter? Why?'

'You seem changed.'

'Changed? It's your fancy.'

'It's a very vivid fancy then. I noticed it first the night you dined with us.' On the afternoon of that day I had first seen the sleeping man. Are there any detectives like the eyes of the woman who loves? 'It has grown more perceptible since. Until now it sits upon you in a guise so that you seem transformed.'

'Many things have happened during the last day or two.'

'Yes. Have you told us of them all?'

'Of them all? What do you mean?'

'Douglas, don't you know what I mean?' She came close to me, laying her hand upon my arm. I actually quivered beneath her touch; a fact of which I had an uncomfortable conviction she was conscious. 'I've another fancy-which is also a very vivid one, that there is something behind all this of which you've said nothing. Douglas, can't you tell me?'

'What your fancy is? I'm afraid you ask something which is beyond my capacity; since it probably takes the shape of poetry rather than prose.'

'Douglas-is Twickenham married?'

'Married? My dear Edith, is that the shape your fancy takes? I know no more whether he was married than you do. Although I have a private conviction-to which I intend to adhere till the contrary is proved-that he wasn't.'

My manner plainly showed her that her shot had failed to hit the mark. She let fly another arrow; this time with a better aim.

'Douglas, where did you see him first?'

'Some day I may tell you. I don't propose to now.'

'Was he ill?'

'Not that I'm aware of.'

'It wasn't in a hospital?'

'A hospital! Edith, what is it you are driving at?'

'Nor in any place of the kind?'

'Are you suggesting that I dragged him from a sick bed to die for our benefit? Because, if so, let me assure you that when I first saw him I had no notion that anything ailed him, or that he was any nearer death than I am.'

'Well, Douglas, I won't worry you now, because I know that you are already worried about something, the burden of which I hope that one day you'll share with me.'

So she went, leaving me in a condition of mental unrest to which I had never supposed I could have fallen a prey. I could not shake off that ridiculous feeling that I had for company the silent figure on the bed; the dead man who was not dead. The interview with Edith invested him with a new significance. Already she suspected that there was more in the matter than met the eye. Was I so poor an actor? Had I so wholly failed to profit by the great example which had been set me? If it was Edith now, when would it be Violet and Reggie? If either of them gained the faintest inkling of the actual state of affairs, what would become of my house of cards, and of me? How infinitely worse would my latter state be than my first! I had never, so far as I knew, done a dishonourable thing till then. Now, on a sudden, here I was, tilting against the laws both of God and man. If I had a fall, there would be an end of me.

The next day I was busied about a multitude of things. The story had already got about, thanks, I imagine, to the people at the hotel; as a consequence I was inundated with inquiries, to some of which I was compelled to give personal attention. For instance, Morris Acrodato-grown old, but still relentless-came, assuring me that he had that unfortunate bill of Twickenham's in his pocket, and wanting to know-if he did not take out a warrant to arrest the corpse, if his claim would be favourably considered by the succeeding peer. Over and over again both Reggie and I had begged Foster to pay him what he asked, and so silence him so far as he could be silenced; but with equal persistency he had retorted by requesting us to furnish him with Twickenham's instructions to do as we desired. So after fifteen years Acrodato was still waiting for his money or his man. A portentous sum the amount which he demanded had become. Although I laughed at his notion of arresting a dead man-we are not in Sheridan's days, when a corpse was seizable-I had no hesitation in giving him my personal assurance that all should be done for him which equity called for. He rather pulled a face at my allusion to equity, that being hardly the point of view from which he wished his case to be regarded.

Try as I would, I could not get through the things which had to be done at anything like the rate which I desired, the result being that the afternoon was already well advanced before I was able to make my promised visit to Cortin's Hotel.

I realised, with a sense of shock, that a hearse stood before the door. What had happened? I looked at my watch. It was after six. The train which was to bear the coffin to Cressland was due to start in something like an hour. What an idiot I had been! Better have left everything else undone rather than run the risk of being too late.

Suppose the undertaker's men were already in the room, and Mr. Babbacombe-mistaking the cause of my non-arrival, and setting it down as intentional-had realised that their purpose was to prison him in that narrow box, and shut him off for ever from the light of day, what might not be taking place! I leaped from the cab and rushed up the steps. The landlord met me in the hall.