Women know nothing about flags.  This one was a red ensign, in those days a purely naval flag, carried (since Trafalgar) by the highest rank of admirals.  Ashore, any one could hoist it, but the flag to cover a soldier’s body was the flag of Union.

This had crossed my mind when I caught sight of the red ensign on the chest of drawers; and again in the summer-house, as I lifted the lid of the flag-locker and noted the finger-marks in the dust upon it, I guessed that Plinny had visited it with pious purpose, and, woman-like, chosen the first flag handy.  I had meant to repair her mistake, and again had forgotten my intention.

Mr. Jack Rogers had driven off for St. Mawes, with Mr. Goodfellow in the tilbury beside him.  Constable Hosken was on his way to Torpoint.  Miss Belcher had withdrawn to her great house, after insisting that I must be fed once more and packed straight off to bed; and fed I duly was, and tucked between sheets, to sleep, exhausted, very nearly the round of the clock.

Footsteps awoke me—­footsteps on the landing outside my bedroom.  I sat up, guessing at once that they were the footsteps of the carpenter and his men, arrived in the dawn with the shell of my father’s coffin.  Almost at once I remembered the red ensign, and, waiting until the footsteps withdrew, stole across, half dressed, to my father’s room to change it.  The faint rays of dawn drifted in through the closed blinds.  The coffin-shell lay the length of the bed, and in it his body.  The carpenter’s men had left it uncovered.  In the dim light, no doubt, they had overlooked the flag, which I felt for and found.  Tucking it under my arm, I closed the door and tiptoed downstairs, let myself out at the back, and stole out to the summer-house.

There was light enough within to help me in selecting the Union flag from the half-dozen within the locker.  I was about to stow the red ensign in its place when I bethought me that, day being so near, I might as well bend a flag upon the flagstaff halliards and half-mast it.

So, with the Union flag under one arm, I carried out the red ensign, bent it carefully, still in a roll, and hoisted it to the truck.  In half-masting a flag, you first hoist it in a bundle to the masthead, break it out there, and thence lower it to the position at which you make fast.

I felt the flag’s toggle jam chock-a-block against the truck of the staff, and gave a tug, shaking out the flag to the still morning breeze.  A second later something thudded on the turf close at my feet.

I stared at it; but the halliards were in my hand, and before picking it up I must wait and make them fast on the cleat.  Still I stared at it, there where it lay on the dim turf.

And still I stared at it.  Either I was dreaming yet, or this—­this thing that had fallen from heaven—­was the oilskin bag that had wrapped Captain Coffin’s chart.

I stooped to pick it up.  At that instant the side-gate rattled, and with a start I faced, in the half light—­Captain Branscome.