e time enough for the futile
formalities which civilization has invented to protect itself. Night,
which is the season of death, should not be disturbed by them.'

'As you think best,' Hugo concurred.

'And now,' Darcy began, in a somewhat relieved tone, when he had
finished his task, and the remains of Francis Tudor lay decently covered
on a sofa in the drawing-room, that mortuary chamber, 'will you oblige
me by coming into the study for a while? I am not in the mood for sleep,
and perhaps you are not. And I will admit frankly that I should prefer
not to be alone at present. Yes,' he added, with a faint deprecatory
smile, 'my theories about death are thoroughly philosophical, but one
cannot always act up to one's theories.'

And in the study, at the other end of the flat, far from the relics of
humanity, he began to roll cigarettes with marvellous swiftness in his
long thin fingers.

Hugo surmised that under his singular and almost glacial calm the man
concealed a temperament highly nervous and sensitive.

'You do not inquire about the--the coffin?' said Darcy at length, when
they had smoked for a few moments in silence.

As a fact, Hugo had determined that, at no matter what cost to his
feelings, he would not be the first to mention the other fatality.

The two men looked at each other, and each blew out a lance of smoke.

'What did she die of?' Hugo demanded curtly.

'You are aware, then, who it is?'

'Naturally, I guessed.'

'Ah! she died of typhoid fever. You knew her?'

'I knew her.'

'Of course; I remember. She was in your employ. Yes,' he sighed; 'she
contracted typhoid fever in Paris. It's always more or less endemic
there. And what with this hot summer and their water-supply and their
drainage, it's been more rife than usual lately. Tudor called me in at
once. I am qualified both in England and France, but I practise in
Paris. It was a fairly ordinary case, except that she suffered from
severe and persistent headaches at the beginning. But in typhoid the
danger is seldom in the fever; it is in the complications. She had a
haemorrhage. I--I failed. A haemorrhage in typhoid is not necessarily
fatal, but it often proves so. She died from exhaustion.'

'I thought,' said Hugo, in a low, unnatural voice, 'that typhoid marked
the patient--spots on the face.'

'Not invariably. Oh no; but why do you say that?'

'I only meant that I hope her face was not marked.'

'It was not. You mean that you hope