a noisy song.  Beyond this the shop contained no furniture whatever, and no stock-in-trade except a few planks leaning against the wall in one corner.  There was a large ink-stand on the counter.  Eustace waited patiently for a minute or two, and then as no one came he began stamping on the floor with his foot.  This proved efficacious, for soon he heard the sound of footsteps ascending wooden stairs, the door behind the counter opened and a man came into the shop.

He was dressed quite neatly now, and his hands were no longer blue with cold, but Eustace knew at once that it was the man who had given him the handbill.  Nevertheless he looked at Eustace without a sign of recognition.

“What can I do for you, sir?” he asked pleasantly.

Eustace laid the handbill down on the counter.

“I want to know about this,” he said.  “It strikes me as being in pretty bad taste, and if a nervous person got hold of it, it might be dangerous.”

“You think so, sir?  Yet our representative,” he lingered affectionately on the words, “our representative told you, I believe, that the handbill was only distributed to suitable cases.”

“That’s where you are wrong,” said Eustace sharply, “for I have no one to bury.”

“Except yourself,” said the coffin merchant suavely.

Eustace looked at him keenly.  “I don’t see——­” he began.  But the coffin merchant interrupted him.

“You must know, sir,” he said, “that this is no ordinary undertaker’s business.  We possess information that enables us to defy competition in our special class of trade.”

“Information!”

“Well, if you prefer it, you may say intuitions.  If our representative handed you that advertisement, it was because he knew you would need it.”

“Excuse me,” said Eustace, “you appear to be sane, but your words do not convey to me any reasonable significance.  You gave me that foolish advertisement yourself, and now you say that you did so because you knew I would need it.  I ask you why?”

The coffin merchant shrugged his shoulders.  “Ours is a sentimental trade,” he said, “I do not know why dead men want coffins, but they do.  For my part I would wish to be cremated.”

“Dead men?”

“Ah, I was coming to that.  You see Mr.——?”

“Reynolds.”

“Thank you, my name is Harding—­G.  J. Harding.  You see, Mr. Reynolds, our intuitions are of a very special character, and if we say that you will need a coffin, it is probable that you will need one.”

“You mean to say that I——­”

“Precisely.  In twenty-four hours or less, Mr. Reynolds, you will need our services.”

The revelation of the coffin merchant’s insanity came to Eustace with a certain relief.  For the first time in the interview he had a sense of the dark empty shop and the whistling gas-jet over his head.

“Why, it sounds like a threat, Mr. Harding!” he said gaily.