“I have already received half-a-dozen letters from people offering and wishing to spend a night in that accursed room,” said Sir Walter.

“Do not call it ‘accursed’ until you know more,” urged Septimus May.

“You have indeed charity,” answered the other.

“Why withhold charity?  We must approach the subject in the only spirit that can disarm the danger.  These inquirers who seek to solve the mystery are not concerned with my son’s death, only the means that brought it about.  Not to such as they will any answer be vouchsafed, and not to the spirit of materialistic inquiry, either.  I speak what I know, and will say more upon the subject at another time.”

“You cannot accept this awful thing without resentment or demur, Mr. May?” asked Henry Lennox.

“Who shall demur?  Did not even the unenlightened men who formed the coroner’s jury declare that Tom passed into another world by the hand of God?  Can we question our Creator?  I, too, desire as much as any human being can an explanation; what is more, I am far more confident of an explanation than you or any other man.  But that is because I already know the only road by which it will please God to send an explanation.  And that is not the road which scientists or rationalists are used to travel.  It is a road that I must be allowed to walk alone.”

He left them after dinner, and returned to his daughter-in-law.  She had determined not to attend the funeral, but Mr. May argued with her, examined her reasons, found them, in his opinion, not sufficient, and prevailed with her to change her mind.

“Drink the cup to the dregs,” he said.  “This is our grief, our trial.  None feel and know what we feel and know, and your youth is called to bear a burden heavy to be borne.  You must stand beside his grave as surely as I must commit him to it.”

Men will go far to look upon the coffin of one whose end happens to be mysterious or terrible.  The death of Sir Walter’s son-in-law had made much matter for the newspapers, and not only Chadlands, but the countryside converged upon the naval funeral, lined the route to the grave, and crowded the little burying ground where the dead man would lie.  Cameras pointed their eyes at the gun-carriage and the mourners behind it.  The photographers worked for a sort of illustrated paper that tramples with a swine’s hoofs and routs up with a swine’s nose the matter its clients best love to purchase.  Mary, supported by her father and her cousin, preserved a brave composure.  Indeed, she was less visibly moved than they.  It seemed that the ascetic parent of the dead had power to lift the widow to his own stern self-control.  The chaplain of Tom May’s ship assisted at the service, but Septimus May conducted it.  Not a few old messmates attended, for the sailor had been popular, and his unexpected death brought genuine grief to many men.  Under a pile of flowers the coffin was carried to the grave.