n all but
deed.

'Have the luggage taken upstairs,' Hugo commanded.

He sat for seven hours in the dome, scarcely moving.

At nine o'clock Albert was announced.

'Coffin just come up, sir,' he said, 'from railway-station.'

But that was the limit of his news.

Within an hour Hugo went to bed. He could not sleep; he had known that
he could not sleep. The wild and savage threat of Louis Ravengar, and
the question, 'Which?' haunted his brain. At one o'clock in the morning
he switched on all the lights, rose out of bed, and walked aimlessly
about the chamber. Something, some morbid impulse, prompted him to take
up the General Catalogue, which lay next to a priceless copy of the 1603
edition of Florio's 'Montaigne.' There were pages and pages about
funerals in the General Catalogue, and forty fine photographic specimens
of tombstones and monuments.

'Funerals conducted in town or country.... Cremations and embalmments
undertaken.... Special stress is laid on the appearance and efficiency
of the attendants, and on the reverent manner in which they perform all
their duties.... A shell finished with satin, with robe, etc.... All
necessary service.... A hearse (or open car, as preferred) and four
horses, three mourning coaches, with two horses each. Coachmen and
attendants in mourning, with gloves. Superintendent, L38.... Estimates
for cremation on application.... Broken column, in marble, L70. The
same, with less carving, L48.' And so on, and so on; and at the top of
every page: 'Hugo, Sloane Street, London. Telegraphic address:
"Complete, London." Hugo, Sloane Street, London. Telegraphic address:
"Complete, London." Hugo--'

Whom was he going to bury the day after to-morrow--he, Hugo,
undertaker, with his reverent attendants of appearance guaranteed
respectable?

The great catalogue slipped to the floor with a terrible noise, and
Simon Shawn sprang out from his lair, and stopped at the sight of his
master in pyjamas under the full-blazing electric chandelier.

'All serene,' said Hugo; 'I only dropped a book. Go to sleep. Perhaps we
may reach Devonshire to-morrow,' he added kindly.

He sympathized with Simon.

'Yes, sir.'

He thought he would take a stroll on the roof; it might calm his
nerves.... Foolishness! How much wiser to take a sedative!

Then he turned to the Montaigne, and after he had glanced at various
pages, his eye encountered a sentence in italics: _'Wisdome hath hir
excesses, and no lesse need