Hodder had bought, with a part of Nan Ferguson’s money, a tiny plot in a remote corner of Winterbourne Cemetery.  And thither, the next morning, the body of Richard Garvin was taken.

A few mourners had stolen into the house and up the threadbare stairs into the miserable little back room, somehow dignified as it had never been before, and laid their gifts upon the coffin.  An odd and pitiful assortment they were—­mourners and gifts:  men and women whose only bond with the man in life had been the bond of misery; who had seen him as he had fared forth morning after morning in the hopeless search for work, and slunk home night after night bitter and dejected; many of whom had listened, jeeringly perhaps, to his grievance against the world, though it were in some sort their own.  Death, for them, had ennobled him.  The little girl whom Hodder had met with the pitcher of beer came tiptoeing with a wilted bunch of pansies, picked heaven knows where; stolen, maybe, from one of the gardens of the West End.  Carnations, lilies of the valley, geraniums even—­such were the offerings scattered loosely on the lid until a woman came with a mass of white roses that filled the room with their fragrance,—­a woman with burnished red hair.  Hodder started as he recognized her; her gaze was a strange mixture of effrontery and —­something else; sorrow did not quite express it.  The very lavishness of her gift brought to him irresistibly the reminder of another offering. . . . .  She was speaking.

“I don’t blame him for what he done—­I’d have done it, too, if I’d been him.  But say, I felt kind of bad when I heard it, knowing about the kid, and all.  I had to bring something—­”

Instinctively Hodder surmised that she was in doubt as to the acceptance of her flowers.  He took them from her hand, and laid them at the foot of the coffin.

“Thank you,” he said, simply.

She stared at him a moment with the perplexity she had shown at times on the night he visited her, and went out. . .

Funerals, if they might be dignified by this name, were not infrequent occurrences in Dalton Street, and why this one should have been looked upon as of sufficient importance to collect a group of onlookers at the gate it is difficult to say.  Perhaps it was because of the seeming interest in it of the higher powers—­for suicide and consequent widows and orphans were not unknown there.  This widow and this orphan were to be miraculously rescued, were to know Dalton Street no more.  The rector of a fashionable church, of all beings, was the agent in the miracle.  Thus the occasion was tinged with awe.  As for Mr. Bentley, his was a familiar figure, and had been remarked in Dalton Street funerals before.