asked. "I thought the
dustman--"

"Out of the question."

"I know it is forbidden by the by-laws of the Corporation, but a shilling
----"

"How stupid you are! If anything were to decide Cook to go it would be
handing over Dundee's remains to the dustman. You know how particular Cook
is about funerals."

I knew indeed. The rate of mortality among her friends and relations was
abnormally high, and on account, as I suspect, of her skill in cookery she
was in frequent demand as a mourner. By continual attendance she had
cultivated a nice sense of what was fitting on these occasions and posed as
an authority on the subject.

"Very well, then, let's have him buried," I said.

"Where?"

"In our garden."

"Who by?"

"Palmer or Emily."

Palmer and Emily are respectively the parlour- and house-maid.

"Both would say it was not the work for which they were engaged. They would
leave at the same time as Cook, if I asked them."

"Who else can we get?" I asked.

"Yourself," my wife made answer.

"Me? But I can't be seen by all the street burying a cat." I should explain
that our only garden is in front of the house.

"If you wait till it is dark you needn't be afraid of anyone seeing you,"
protested my wife.

"And run the risk of being detected by some suspicious policeman. No, thank
you."

"Then if you won't do it yourself you must find someone who will. It is our
last hope of persuading Cook to stay."

"By heaven!" I cried, looking at my watch, I am a quarter-of-an-hour late.
I must run."

This was my customary device to evade the embarrassing dilemmas which my
wife not infrequently thrust upon me at this hour. So for the moment I
escaped. All day in the office I was fully occupied. From time to time the
memory of Dundee lying stark in the basement obtruded itself upon my
thoughts, but I dismissed the vision as one does a problem one has not the
courage to face.

The problem remained unsolved when I stepped out of the train on my return
from the City. To gain time for reflection I resolved to make a detour. As
I struck into an unfamiliar side street, I looked up, and there in front of
me stood an undertaker's shop.

The inspiration! I entered. From the back premises advanced to meet me the
undertaker, with a visage tentatively wobegone, not yet knowing whether I
was widower, orphan, businesslike executor or merely the busybody family
friend. I unfolded my difficulty. Beneath the outer crust of professi