“I hope,” said Van Helsing, “that when you are sending the child home you will caution its parents to keep strict watch over it.  These fancies to stray are most dangerous, and if the child were to remain out another night, it would probably be fatal.  But in any case I suppose you will not let it away for some days?”

“Certainly not, not for a week at least, longer if the wound is not healed.”

Our visit to the hospital took more time than we had reckoned on, and the sun had dipped before we came out.  When Van Helsing saw how dark it was, he said,

“There is not hurry.  It is more late than I thought.  Come, let us seek somewhere that we may eat, and then we shall go on our way.”

We dined at ‘Jack Straw’s Castle’ along with a little crowd of bicyclists and others who were genially noisy.  About ten o’clock we started from the inn.  It was then very dark, and the scattered lamps made the darkness greater when we were once outside their individual radius.  The Professor had evidently noted the road we were to go, for he went on unhesitatingly, but, as for me, I was in quite a mixup as to locality.  As we went further, we met fewer and fewer people, till at last we were somewhat surprised when we met even the patrol of horse police going their usual suburban round.  At last we reached the wall of the churchyard, which we climbed over.  With some little difficulty, for it was very dark, and the whole place seemed so strange to us, we found the Westenra tomb.  The Professor took the key, opened the creaky door, and standing back, politely, but quite unconsciously, motioned me to precede him.  There was a delicious irony in the offer, in the courtliness of giving preference on such a ghastly occasion.  My companion followed me quickly, and cautiously drew the door to, after carefully ascertaining that the lock was a falling, and not a spring one.  In the latter case we should have been in a bad plight.  Then he fumbled in his bag, and taking out a matchbox and a piece of candle, proceeded to make a light.  The tomb in the daytime, and when wreathed with fresh flowers, had looked grim and gruesome enough, but now, some days afterwards, when the flowers hung lank and dead, their whites turning to rust and their greens to browns, when the spider and the beetle had resumed their accustomed dominance, when the time-discoloured stone, and dust-encrusted mortar, and rusty, dank iron, and tarnished brass, and clouded silver-plating gave back the feeble glimmer of a candle, the effect was more miserable and sordid than could have been imagined.  It conveyed irresistibly the idea that life, animal life, was not the only thing which could pass away.

Van Helsing went about his work systematically.  Holding his candle so that he could read the coffin plates, and so holding it that the sperm dropped in white patches which congealed as they touched the metal, he made assurance of Lucy’s coffin.  Another search in his bag, and he took out a turnscrew.