We passed into Heathcote Street, at the end of which was an open gate giving entrance to one of those disused and metamorphosed burial-grounds that are to be met with in the older districts of London; in which the dispossessed dead are jostled into corners to make room for the living.  Many of the headstones were still standing, and others, displaced to make room for asphalted walks and seats, were ranged around by the walls, exhibiting inscriptions made meaningless by their removal.  It was a pleasant enough place on this summer afternoon, contrasted with the dingy street whence we had come, though its grass was faded and yellow and the twitter of the birds in the trees mingled with the hideous Board-school drawl of the children who played around the seats and the few remaining tombs.

“So this is the last resting-place of the illustrious house of Bellingham,” said I.

“Yes; and we are not the only distinguished people who repose in this place.  The daughter of no less a person than Richard Cromwell is buried here; the tomb is still standing—­but perhaps you have been here before, and know it.”

“I don’t think I have ever been here before; and yet there is something about the place that seems familiar.”  I looked around, cudgelling my brains for the key to the dimly reminiscent sensations that the place evoked; until, suddenly, I caught sight of a group of buildings away to the west, enclosed within a wall heightened by a wooden trellis.

“Yes, of course!” I exclaimed.  “I remember the place now.  I have never been in this part before, but in that enclosure beyond which opens at the end of Henrietta Street, there used to be and may be still, for all I know, a school of anatomy, at which I attended in my first year; in fact, I did my first dissection there.”

“There was a certain gruesome appropriateness in the position of the school,” remarked Miss Bellingham.  “It would have been really convenient in the days of the resurrection men.  Your material would have been delivered at your very door.  Was it a large school?”

“The attendance varied according to the time of the year.  Sometimes I worked there quite alone.  I used to let myself in with a key and hoist my subject out of a sort of sepulchral tank by means of a chain tackle.  It was a ghoulish business.  You have no idea how awful the body used to look, to my unaccustomed eyes, as it rose slowly out of the tank.  It was like the resurrection scenes that you see on some old tombstones, where the deceased is shown rising out of his coffin while the skeleton, Death, falls vanquished with his dart shattered and his crown toppling off.

“I remember, too, that the demonstrator used to wear a blue apron, which created a sort of impression of a cannibal butcher’s shop.  But I am afraid I am shocking you.”

“No, you are not.  Every profession has its unpresentable aspects, which ought not to be seen by out-siders.  Think of a sculptor’s studio and of the sculptor himself when he is modelling a large figure or group in the clay.  He might be a bricklayer or a road-sweeper if you judge by his appearance.  This is the tomb I was telling you about.”