“Why did you object to Mary hearing these facts?  In what way should they distress her particularly?”

“Can you not see?  Indeed, one might fairly have objected to your presence also.  But you are a man.  There is an implied horror of the darkest sort for poor Mary in the suggestion that Hardcastle may still live.  If he can be brought back to life, then she would surely think that perhaps her husband and your son might have been.  Imagine the agony of that.  I speak plainly; indeed, there is no rational or sentimental reason why I should not, for the truth is, of course, that the signs of death were clearly evident on your poor boy before what we had to do was done.  But the bare thought must have shocked Mary.  We know emphatically that Hardcastle is dead, and we need not mention to her this fantastic theory from London.”

“I appreciate your consideration,” said Sir Walter; and the clergyman also acknowledged it.

“There can be no shadow of doubt concerning my son,” he said; “nor is there any in the matter of this unfortunate man.”

Henry Lennox went to prepare for the journey.  Then, obeying the doctor’s directions and treating the dead man as though he were merely unconscious, they carried him to the ambulance car.  It was an unseemly farce in Mannering’s opinion, and he only realized the painful nature of his task when he came to undertake it; but he carried it through in every particular as directed, conveyed the corpse to Newton after dark, and had the ambulance bed, in which it reposed, borne to the saloon carriage when the night mail arrived from Plymouth, between eleven and twelve.  He was able to regulate the temperature with hot steam, and kept hot bottles to the feet and sides of the dead.

He felt impatient and resentful; he poured scorn on the superior authority for the benefit of the inspector and Henry Lennox, who accompanied him; but in secret he experienced emotions of undoubted satisfaction that life had broken from its customary monotonous round to furnish him with an adventure so unique.  He pointed out a fact to the policeman before they had started.

“You will observe,” he said, with satire, “that, despite the heat we are directed to apply to this unfortunate man, rigor mortis has set in.  Whether the authority in London regards that as an evidence of death, of course I cannot pretend to say.  Perhaps not.  I may be behind the times.”

Neither Mannering nor Lennox had spared much thought for those left behind them at Chadlands.  The extraordinary character of the task put upon them sufficed to fill their minds, and it was not until the small hours, when they sat with their hands in their pockets and the train ran steadily through darkness and storm, that the younger spoke of his cousin.

“I hope those old men won’t bully Mary to-night,” he said.  “I’d meant to ask you to give Uncle Walter a caution.  May’s not quite all there, in my opinion, and very likely, now you’re out of the way, he’ll get round Sir Walter about that infernal room.”