the angular grave-stones
raised their kindly lies in the darkness. A few stars flickered in the
sky; no moon. And miles off, so it seemed, north, south, east, and west,
the yellow lights of human habitations, the lights of warm rooms where
living people were so engaged in the business of being alive that they
actually forgot death--these lights winked to each other across the
waste and desolation of a hundred thousand tombs.

With the certainty of a blind man, the assurance of a seer who has
divined what the future holds, he approached the vault. He was aware
that the little gate in the railing would be open. It was. He was aware
that the iron door in the side of the vault would be unlocked. It was.
He pushed it and entered. All difficulties and hindrances had been
removed. No odour of death greeted his nostrils, unless the strong smell
of chloroform can be called the odour of death. He struck a match. The
first thing he saw was a candle and a screwdriver, and then the match
blew out. The door of the vault was ajar, and he would not close it. He
dared not. He struck another match and put it to the candle, and the
vault was full of jumping shadows. And he looked and looked again. Yes,
down in that corner she lay, motionless, lifeless, done with for ever
and ever. Only her face was visible. The rest of her seemed to be
covered with a man's overcoat, flung hastily down. He stared, enchanted
by the horror. What was that white stuff round her head? Part of it
seemed to be torn, and a strip fluttered across her closed eyelids. He
went nearer. He touched--cold! Could she be so soon cold? And then the
truth swept over him, and almost swept his senses away, that this image
in the corner was not she, but merely that waxen thing made by the
sculptor in Paris, that counterfeit which had deceived him in the
drawing-room of the flat.

Then where was she? And why was not this counterfeit in its coffin, in
which it had been buried with all the rites of the Church? The coffin?
Yes, the coffin was there at his feet, with its brass plate, which had
rusted at the corners; and below it, in some undefined depth, was
another coffin, the sarcophagus of Tudor himself. He stooped and shifted
the candle. On Camilla's coffin were a number of screws, rolled about in
various directions; only one screw was in its place. He seized the
screwdriver--and in that moment a tiny part of his intelligence found
leisure to decide that this screwdriver was sl