The other glared at him in stony surprise. "It ain't taken place. It's
to-morrow. Ain't you on? I'm Hines."

A frown darkened the sexton's heavy features. He shook a reprehensive
head. "An unfortunate case," he boomed; "most unfortunate. I will not
conceal from you, Mr. Hines, that I have consulted our attorneys upon
this case, and unhappily--unhappily, I say--they hold that there is no
basis for exclusion provided the certificate is in form. You have it
with you?"

Impassive and inscrutable, Mr. Hines tapped his breast-pocket.

The conscience of a responsible sexton being assuaged, Bartholomew's
expression mollified into that of the flattered poet.

"Such being the case," he pursued, "there can be no objection to the
reading of an elegy as part of the service. Who is to officiate?"

"The Reverend Doctor Hackett."

"He has retired these two years," said the sexton doubtfully. "He is
very old. His mind sometimes wanders."

"She wouldn't have any one else," asserted the hard, pink Mr. Hines.
"She was as particular about that as about being buried yonder." He
jerked his head toward the window.

"Very well. I will be at the grave. I always am. Trust me to guide the
reverend gentleman over any breach in his memory. Excuse me for a moment
while I look up my elegies."