the handbill down on the counter.

"I want to know about this," he said. "It strikes me as being in
pretty bad taste, and if a nervous person got hold of it, it might be
dangerous."

"You think so, sir? Yet our representative," he lingered
affectionately on the words, "our representative told you, I believe,
that the handbill was only distributed to suitable cases."

"That's where you are wrong," said Eustace sharply, "for I have no
one to bury."

"Except yourself," said the coffin merchant suavely.

Eustace looked at him keenly. "I don't see----" he began. But the
coffin merchant interrupted him.

"You must know, sir," he said, "that this is no ordinary undertaker's
business. We possess information that enables us to defy competition
in our special class of trade."

"Information!"

"Well, if you prefer it, you may say intuitions. If our
representative handed you that advertisement, it was because he knew
you would need it."

"Excuse me," said Eustace, "you appear to be sane, but your words do
not convey to me any reasonable significance. You gave me that
foolish advertisement yourself, and now you say that you did so
because you knew I would need it. I ask you why?"

The coffin merchant shrugged his shoulders. "Ours is a sentimental
trade," he said, "I do not know why dead men want coffins, but they
do. For my part I would wish to be cremated."

"Dead men?"

"Ah, I was coming to that. You see Mr.----?"

"Reynolds."

"Thank you, my name is Harding--G. J. Harding. You see, Mr. Reynolds,
our intuitions are of a very special character, and if we say that
you will need a coffin, it is probable that you will need one."

"You mean to say that I----"

"Precisely. In twenty-four hours or less, Mr. Reynolds, you will need
our services."

The revelation of the coffin merchant's insanity came to Eustace
with a certain relief. For the first time in the interview he had a
sense of the dark empty shop and the whistling gas-jet over his
head.

"Why, it sounds like a threat, Mr. Harding!" he said gaily.

The coffin merchant looked at him oddly, and produced a printed form
from his pocket. "If you would fill this up," he said.

Eustace picked it up off the counter and laughed aloud. It was an
order for a hundred-guinea funeral.

"I don't know what your game is," he said, "but this has gone on long
enough."

"Perhaps it has, Mr. Reynolds," said the coffin merchant, and he
leant across the counter and look