"Not the least occasion, I assure you," he said, fervently. "Your sister
had practically passed away when I last saw her. There are times
when--er--you see--but really there is no necessity."

"Mr. Henson is terribly fastidious about these things."

"Then he shall be satisfied. I shall tell him that I have--er--seen the
body. And I have, you know. In these matters a medical man cannot be too
careful. If you will provide me with pen and ink--"

"Thank you very much. Will you come this way, please?"

Walker followed into the drawing-room. Mrs. Henson, wearing something
faded and dishevelled in the way of a mourning dress, was crooning some
dirge at the piano. Her white hair was streaming loosely over her
shoulders, there was a vacant stare in her eyes. The intruders might have
been statues for all the heed she took of them. Presently the discordant
music ceased, and she began to pace noiselessly up and down the room.

"Another one gone," she murmured; "the best-beloved. It is always the
best-beloved that dies, and the one we hate that is left. Take all those
coaches away, send the guests back home. Why do they come chattering and
feasting here? She shall be drawn by four black horses to Churchfield in
the dead of the night, and there laid in the family vault."

"Mrs. Henson's residence," Enid explained, in a whisper. "It is some
fifteen miles away. She has made up her mind that my sister shall be
taken away as she says--to-morrow night. Is this paper all that is
necessary for the--you understand? I have telephoned to the undertaker in