roused, and
he stood quite near the grave when the service was read.

He could have laughed aloud. No grimmer joke was ever perpetrated. He
looked curiously at the by-standers, and watched the expression on their
faces. Mr. Flipp's face was as expressionless as that of the Sphinx.
Winfield looked very thoughtful; the others seemed to pay but little
heed.

"A product of heredity, environment, and hard lines," said Winfield to
his companion as he accompanied him to the carriage.

"Poor old Leicester, I wonder where he is now?" said the other.

The carriage door closed, and a few seconds later no one but himself
stood at the graveside, save the workmen who were filling in the grave.

"There's not much grief nor sentiment about the matter," said Leicester
as he walked away. "Still, it's been an experience worth having. I fancy
I am one of the very few men who have ever attended their own funeral in
this fashion."

When he got outside the cemetery he passed by a newsagent's shop, and
noticed the placards on the board outside:

"THE CURSE OF DRINK: SAD END OF A BRILLIANT YOUNG POLITICIAN"

He went in and bought the paper, which could best be described as a kind
of religious police news. When he got back to his room he read the
article, which had used him for its text.

"I'm of some value to the world anyhow," he said with a laugh. "I should
not be surprised if sermons are not preached about me on Sunday. It
would be worth while to find it out. But there, no one would preach a
funeral sermon about me, although I must say I should like to hear one."

"I'm finished with London, finished with the world now," he continued
presently. "From this time I'm a dead man. Radford Leicester committed
suicide, has been 'sat upon' by a coroner and jury, and has been buried.
After all, I'm glad he's not buried at the expense of the public.
Henceforth Radford Leicester is no more. Some one else takes his place.
Now I must carry my plans into effect."

CHAPTER XVII

HOW OLIVE RECEIVED THE NEWS

Olive Castlemaine sat beneath a mimosa-tree in the garden of an hotel in
Grasse in the south of France. Near her sat her father, who was
diligently reading a French newspaper. They had been sitting thus for
some time, neither speaking to the other. In spite of the sunshine, and
the fresh winds which blew across the hills on which this French village
was built, Olive looked pale and tired. Much of her old vivacity was
gone. The spa