‘Well,’ said Hugo, ’there isn’t likely to be a funeral without a coffin, and no porter could be blind to a coffin going upstairs.’

‘I can’t get wind of any coffin, sir.’

‘And that’s all you’ve learnt?’

’That’s the hang of it, sir—­up to now.  But I can wire you to-night or to-morrow, with further particulars.’

Hugo glanced at the carriage-clock in front of him, and thought of the famine of porters at Waterloo Station in August, and invented several other plausible excuses for a resolution which he foresaw that he was about to arrive at.

‘You’ve made me miss my train,’ he said, pretending to be annoyed.

‘Sorry, sir.  Simon, the governor isn’t going.’

Simon descended from the box for confirmation, a fratricide in all but deed.

‘Have the luggage taken upstairs,’ Hugo commanded.

He sat for seven hours in the dome, scarcely moving.

At nine o’clock Albert was announced.

‘Coffin just come up, sir,’ he said, ‘from railway-station.’

But that was the limit of his news.

Within an hour Hugo went to bed.  He could not sleep; he had known that he could not sleep.  The wild and savage threat of Louis Ravengar, and the question, ‘Which?’ haunted his brain.  At one o’clock in the morning he switched on all the lights, rose out of bed, and walked aimlessly about the chamber.  Something, some morbid impulse, prompted him to take up the General Catalogue, which lay next to a priceless copy of the 1603 edition of Florio’s ‘Montaigne.’  There were pages and pages about funerals in the General Catalogue, and forty fine photographic specimens of tombstones and monuments.

’Funerals conducted in town or country....  Cremations and embalmments undertaken....  Special stress is laid on the appearance and efficiency of the attendants, and on the reverent manner in which they perform all their duties....  A shell finished with satin, with robe, etc....  All necessary service....  A hearse (or open car, as preferred) and four horses, three mourning coaches, with two horses each.  Coachmen and attendants in mourning, with gloves.  Superintendent, L38....  Estimates for cremation on application....  Broken column, in marble, L70.  The same, with less carving, L48.’  And so on, and so on; and at the top of every page:  ’Hugo, Sloane Street, London.  Telegraphic address:  “Complete, London.”  Hugo, Sloane Street, London.  Telegraphic address:  “Complete, London.”  Hugo—­’

Whom was he going to bury the day after to-morrow—­he, Hugo, undertaker, with his reverent attendants of appearance guaranteed respectable?

The great catalogue slipped to the floor with a terrible noise, and Simon Shawn sprang out from his lair, and stopped at the sight of his master in pyjamas under the full-blazing electric chandelier.

‘All serene,’ said Hugo; ’I only dropped a book.  Go to sleep.  Perhaps we may reach Devonshire to-morrow,’ he added kindly.