“No, that’s all there is.  We made it too large by mistake, but we put a bed quilt in for stuffing.”

“But, my man, it isn’t very well put together; the lid isn’t tight.”

“No—­neither it is.”  Saul had already sidled to the door.

Trenholme felt it with his thumb and fingers.

“It’s perfectly loose,” he cried.  “It’s only got a few nails in the lid.  You ought to have put in screws, you know.”

“Yes, but we hadn’t got any; we had used the last screws we had for the hinge of a door.  I’m going to buy some to put in at St. Hennon’s.  Good-day.”

As they spoke, Saul had been going to his cart, and Trenholme following, with authoritative displeasure in his mien.

“It’s exceedingly careless—­upon my word.  Come back and nail it up firmer,” cried he.

But Saul drove off.

The young station-master went back to the store-room.  He looked at the box for a moment, with annoyance still in his mind.  The air that he had would have sat well upon a man with servants under him, but was somewhat futile in the keeper of a desolate railway-station.  He had not been able to command the man, and he certainly could not command the coffin to nail itself more firmly together.  After all, his tea waited.  Somewhat sullenly he barred the double door on the inside, and went back to his own room and his evening meal.

The room was filled with the steam of the boiling tea as he poured it out, and the smoke of the ham gravy.  With the strength of youth and health he thrust aside the annoyance of his official position from his present mind, and set himself to his supper with considerable satisfaction.

He had not, however, eaten a single morsel before he heard a sound in the next room which caused him to sit erect and almost rigid, forgetting his food.  He had been so pre-occupied a minute before with the carelessness of those who constructed the coffin that he had left the inner door between the two rooms ajar.  It was through this that the sound came, and it seemed to his quickened sense to proceed from the corner in which the pinewood box reposed, but he hastily went over all the contents of the room to think if any of them could be falling or shifting among themselves.  The sound still continued; it seemed as if something was being gently worked to and fro, as in a soft socket.  His imagination was not very quick to represent impossible dangers, nor had he in him more cowardice than dwells in most brave men.  He did not allow himself to conclude that he heard the coffin-lid being opened from the inside.  He took his lamp and went to see what was wrong.

The sound ceased as he moved.  When the light of the lamp was in the next room all was perfectly silent.  For almost half a minute he stood still, shading his eyes from the lamp, while, with every disagreeable sensation crowding upon him, he observed distinctly that, although the nails were still holding it loosely in place, the lid of the coffin was raised half an inch, more than that indeed, at the top.