Читать книгу The Grave-Digger of Monks Arden - Arthur Gask - Страница 4

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THE young baronet Sir Eric Roding, of Roding Hall, near the little village of Ashleigh St. Mary in Suffolk, was dead.

He had died suddenly of heart failure, in what had seemed to everyone a mild attack of influenza. He had only been confined to his bed for three days and had been attended by the kindly old doctor from the village, who had brought him into the world eight and twenty years before.

He had appeared to be getting on quite well, so much so, indeed, that some guests who were staying at the Hall for the racing of the Newmarket July Meeting had been persuaded by him and Lady Roding on no account to terminate their visit as it was thought he would soon be about again and able to resume his duties as host.

But towards night upon the fourth day of his illness, to everyone's horror it was suddenly realised that he was lapsing into unconsciousness, and the doctor being hurriedly summoned from the village, it was found his heart was failing rapidly. Prompt measures were at once taken to tide him over the crisis and a call was quickly put through to a great specialist in London, but although the latter started at once upon his journey, he was too late to be of any service, as a few minutes before he arrived Sir Eric had passed away.

"But I am not so very greatly surprised," sighed the old doctor afterwards to the weeping young widow, "for the dreadful privations he underwent in Afghanistan, and those bouts of fever he contracted there, must inevitably have taken their toll of him. You must realise that there comes a time to the very strongest constitution when it begins to get undermined."

Sir Eric had succeeded to the title but a little less than a year before, and the sadness of his death was beyond all measure. In the very heyday of his manhood, he had seemed to be enjoying all the happiness that life could give. He was possessed of ample means and the owner of broad lands that stretched for miles about his home, and he had been married only six months to a beautiful and sweetly dispositioned young girl.

All through his life there had been romance.

As a young subaltern, upon active service on the North-West Frontier of India, he had received the Victoria Cross for conspicuous bravery; he had come into the baronetcy through the unexpected decease of an uncle and two cousins who had stood between him and the title; and his marriage had come about in circumstances that would have delighted the recorder of the most romantic tales.

His bride had been one of a large family and the eldest daughter of a poor country doctor in Sussex. He had met her at a Hunt Ball and had fallen instantly in love with her. His wooing had been swift and ardent and, in less than three months from the day when he had first set eyes upon her, she had been installed as the proud mistress of Roding Hall.

And now she was in the depths of sorrow and bereft of all hope that she would ever know any happiness again.

With the death of Sir Eric the baronetcy had become extinct, and in four days the last of the Rodings would be lowered into the family vault, beneath the lady chapel of the village church where for hundreds of years the bodies of the line had been laid to rest.

On the day but one before the interment the grave-digger of Monks Arden was engaged in weeding the paths of the churchyard when, hearing footsteps approaching, he looked up to see Professor Panther coming towards him and at once gave the nearest approach to a warm smile of which he was capable.

The acquaintanceship, which had matured into a real friendship, between the two men had begun some three years back. The professor had happened to admire one of Daunt's carved panels in a friend's house and, learning where he had obtained it, had promptly sought out the grave-digger and given him a commission for a pair of similar ones. Then he had just been turning away when he had noticed an ugly sore upon the palm of one of the man's hands.

"But what's that you've got there?" he asked, his professional instincts being instantly aroused.

"Eczema," growled the grave-digger, by no means pleased at the professor's interest in him.

The professor reached out and took hold of the hand. "How long have you had it?" he asked frowningly.

"Years and years," was the surly reply, "I've got it on my body too. The doctor can't cure it."

"Show me the other places," ordered the professor. "I'm a doctor myself."

A brief examination followed, with Daunt baring a hairy leg and exposing his chest. Then the professor announced emphatically: "It's not eczema at all. It's caused by a fungus and is a sort of ring-worm. I'll send you something that will cure it in three weeks." He regarded him curiously. "But, good God, man, doesn't it worry you?"

"Makes my life miserable," scowled Daunt. "I get hardly any sleep at all."

The professor was as good as his word and, beyond that, even took the trouble to motor over and make sure his patient was cured. The grave-digger said little, but he was profoundly grateful, and deep down in his usually unresponsive heart he conceived an almost dog-like devotion for his benefactor. His gratitude was accentuated, too, when upon observing the crude tools with which he had been working, the professor presented him with a complete carving outfit, as well as some technical books upon the subject. Daunt just barely expressed his thanks, but the professor fully understood his feelings and, being of a most kind-hearted disposition, was delighted to have been of service to the man.

Then, one day, when as a special favour Daunt had been taken into the professor's laboratory and shown the latter's anatomical specimens, he remarked gruffly, "I could get you some of those if you wanted them. We have a burial at Monks Arden every now and then and I am in sole charge of the graveyard there."

At the time the professor had declined smilingly, but the idea put into his mind gradually took possession of him, and so within a few weeks the ghoulish partnership between them had commenced. All his life an enthusiastic student of anatomy, corpses were just corpses to the professor, and Daunt, who until he had met the professor had not had any feelings of respect for any person living, certainly had not for anyone dead.

The professor now tripped gaily up the path, his face all smiles and enthusiasm.

"Another little commission for you, my friend," he said cheerfully. "Now do you happen to know the church in Ashleigh St. Mary—St. Cuthbert's it is called?"

"Never been inside," replied Daunt, "but I've passed it. There are yew trees in the churchyard."

"That's it," nodded the professor, "and at two o'clock the day after to-morrow Sir Eric Roding is being buried in the family vault. He died on Monday, and I want you to get the usual specimen. He was a man of dauntless courage and his brain should be most interesting."

"But burial in the vault under the church," frowned the grave-digger. He shook his head. "It will be difficult."

"No, no," laughed the professor, "not difficult at all, as the masons are not going to brick in the coffin until next week. They are engaged to do some repairs to the church then, and as they come all the way from Norwich, it has been arranged that the bricking-in shall wait until then." He went on briskly. "Now listen. I have just come from having a look over the church, and by a wonderful piece of good luck when I went in the cleaner was there. She was dusting the pews, but I got her to leave off and show me round. Of course, she was full of the burial on Thursday and pointed out the flags that would have to be raised to lower the coffin into the vault."

"Heavy ones?" asked Daunt instantly.

"That doesn't matter at all," replied the professor, "for she told me the masons will get into the vault from the outside of the church. She took me into the churchyard and showed me some narrow steps leading down to a small door, under the east church wall and at least eight feet below the level of the ground. She said that door opens into a passage which runs under the altar and straight into the vaults."

"But locked, of course?" queried Daunt.

The professor nodded. "Yes, but both the door and lock are very old and, as they constitute something of curiosity, she went and got the key out of the vestry to show me. Naturally I showed a very keen interest, and she allowed me to make a tracing of it upon a piece of paper. Here it is, and it seems to me the lock must be so simple that a piece of bent iron will open it."

Daunt studied the tracing for a few moments. "Yes, I can manage it," he said. He looked up at the professor. "But that end of the church doesn't face the road, does it?"

"No, it happens to be the side farthest away from the road and it's quite secluded. There's a small plantation, too, not a hundred yards beyond the churchyard, and I thought you could run your motor-bicycle among the trees, with no likelihood of it being seen by anyone. Then there would be only a low wall for you to climb over."

"If I remember," commented Daunt meditatively, "the church is at the end of the village."

"At the very end," said the professor, "and from what the cleaner told me, the door is never locked. So you had better go and look it over, if you can, this evening."

So at five o'clock Daunt left his work and, tidying himself up and putting on a dark jacket, set off for the little village of Ashleigh St. Mary. It was about thirty miles from Monks Arden and lay midway between Bury St. Edmunds and Sudbury. Reaching the village, he had a glass of beer at the inn and then, leaving his motor-bicycle and sidecar in the stable there, went off, as he mentioned casually to satisfy the rather curious innkeeper, for a stroll to stretch his legs. He was annoyed when he noticed that the innkeeper came to the inn door and watched which way he went.

The church was only a couple of hundred yards or so away, and like that at Monks Arden and so many others scattered about in the little villages of East Anglia, was of great antiquity and much historical association. The door was open, and proceeding inside, Daunt very quickly checked the information that the professor had given him concerning the Roding family vault.

Then he went outside and examined the little narrow door at the bottom of the flight of steps, and was at once glad he had done so; for if the lock were old, it was nevertheless of most massive construction and would need, he saw, a very stout piece of iron to pick it.

He examined it minutely and then, emboldened by the silence and perfect solitude of the churchyard, went back into the church and tiptoed into the vestry to get a look at the key itself, if he could find it.

But no long search was needed for the key, as it was hanging upon the wall just inside the door.

He snatched it down quickly and, an idea striking him, after a moments hesitation returned with all speed to the narrow door. Inserting the key in the lock, with a great heave he turned it round.

"Oil, oil," he murmured frowningly, "I shall never get this open if it isn't oiled." Then, symptomatic of his methodical nature, with only just one glance into the dark passage that now lay open before him, he ran back into the church to obtain some lubricant.

The church had only oil lamps and he smiled a grim smile as he picked up a lantern from off the vestry floor. He had found both a lubricant and an illuminant at the same time.

The lock oiled as best he could and the key turned many times, he lit the lantern and proceeded to explore the passage. It was very short and led into a sort of long low cellar, extending down the whole length of the church and lined all its way along with innumerable slate-bottomed shelves. Many of the shelves had evidently received their coffins, as they were bricked up, but there were many still open and unoccupied. Holding his lantern high, he could make out the two flagstones above that would be lifted to let the next coffin down, and he formed a good idea as to which shelf it would be placed on.

Satisfied at length that he had learnt all he could, he relocked the door and returned into the vestry to replace both lantern and key. Then, upon a piece of paper, which he abstracted from a desk, he made a much more elaborate tracing of the key. Finally, he left the church very well pleased with his evening's work.

But he was not so pleased when, upon returning to his motor-bicycle, he discovered one of the tyres was flat, and he was more disgusted still when he found his headlight was not functioning properly. These troubles delayed him a good half-hour, and the whole time he had an audience of the landlord of the inn and three of his cronies, who all appeared to be greatly interested in the proceedings. He swore under his breath, for intending as he was to be present at the burial on Friday, publicity was the last thing he was desiring.

He got away at last. Anxious to reach home before dark, as he was still not too confident about his lights, he accelerated immediately, to be pulled up, however, when not a mile from the village by a police patrol, for speeding. Particulars were jotted down about his outfit and he had to produce his driving licence. He was most annoyed, for cautious in all he did, he realised there was now an official record that he had been in the neighbourhood of the village.

The day fixed for the interment was beautifully warm and sunny, and, having hidden his motor-bicycle in a disused quarry a good mile from the village, half an hour before the funeral party was due to arrive Daunt took a seat in the church in such a position that he would be able to get a good view of the coffin and yet at the same time not attract, so he hoped, any undue attention of the villagers, whom he was sure would be attending the burial in good numbers.

But here again good fortune did not attend him, for just before the burial party arrived, the landlord of the inn came in and plumped himself down right beside him. The man remembered him at once, too, and gave him a smiling but rather curious look. Worse still, after the coffin had been carried into the church and the service had commenced, another man arrived and seated himself next to the landlord. To Daunt's mortification he recognised the second man as being a press photographer from Cambridge who had recently been taking photographs of the church at Monks Arden, and he saw at once that the photographer had recognised him. Then the photographer and the innkeeper had a few whispers together and, from their glances in his direction, Daunt had no doubt they were exchanging confidences about him.

Having noted all he could about the coffin, Daunt slipped out of the church before the service was concluded, being sure the inquisitive innkeeper would want to talk to him if he got the opportunity. He made his way back to where he had left his motor-bicycle, and there, lying back in the hot sun, dozed away the afternoon and evening until it had become quite dark.

Intending to lose no time, at half-past ten he set out again for the church, but when about a quarter of a mile from the village, he stopped the engine and started to push the machine and sidecar, so that the noise of its approach should not be heard.

Then just as he was about to turn off the main road into a small by-lane that would take him to the plantation at the back of the churchyard, a car came up behind him and the driver pulled up and asked if he were in any trouble. To his great annoyance he saw it was once more the landlord of the village inn, and by a surprised exclamation, followed at once by a friendly grin, he knew the man had recognised him.

"No, I'm all right," he replied surlily, and he went on with the lame excuse that his engine had been running hot and he was giving it a chance to cool down.

"Well, so long, mate," called out the innkeeper as he let in his clutch and drove off. "I'll look you up when I'm next your way," and the grave-digger frowned as the car disappeared round a corner.

He had soon parked his sidecar in the middle of the small plantation suggested by the professor, and climbing over the low wall into the churchyard, at once started operations.

The rough, home-made key he had provided himself with very quickly opened the narrow door at the bottom of the steps, and, carrying a half-laden sack of tools with him, he very carefully reclosed the door and entered the vaults.

Flashing his torch round, his eyes at once fell upon the coffin that had been lowered there that afternoon. It had already been lifted up on to one of the vacant shelves, but there were no signs as yet of any preparations for bricking it in.

Losing not a moment of time, he produced a small petrol lantern from the sack, and in a few moments the whole place was brightly illuminated. Then from the sack again out came a paraffin blow-lamp, a number of tools including a big soldering iron, and the small mackintosh-lined sugar-bag.

The coffin was lying upon a shelf of thick slate about three feet above the paved floor of the vault and consisted of an outer shell of stout oak and an inner shell, the coffin proper, of thick lead. The leaden coffin had been well soldered up, so that the body would be kept for ever hermetically sealed.

So Daunt was quite aware that he had by no means an easy task before him, for, with the outer shell opened, he would have to cut through the leaden one and then, having obtained all he was after, re-solder the latter most carefully so that no putrefaction should set in and allow the fact that the coffin had been tampered with to become known. He expected the coffin would be very heavy too, and the shelf upon which it was resting being only just high enough to let it slip in, he would have to lift it down to work at it. He was uneasy there, for, with some misgiving, he had noted with what efforts the six bearers had lowered it from off their shoulders when, that afternoon, they had carried it into the church.

Placing his lantern in the best position possible, he seized hold of the foot of the coffin and, swinging it round until it was evenly balanced over the edge of the shelf, with his legs planted wide apart and with every muscle of his arms strained to their utmost extent, he pulled the coffin forward and lowered its foot very gently to the ground. It was as much as he could do to keep it from falling with a crash, and as he wiped the sweat from his forehead, he thought ruefully of the task he would have when he came to lift it up again.

Making sure the coffin would not slip from its semi-upright position and topple sideways to the ground, he quickly unscrewed the beautifully polished oak lid and had all the inner leadwork exposed to view.

Then with a stout knife he attacked the lead at the top and very soon was able to tear back a broad strip, the head and face of the enclosed body thus being exposed. He saw the dead man had been of strikingly handsome appearance, but his good looks were marred now by the stubbly growth of several days' beard.

The grave-digger snatched up a sharply pointed knife and, bending over the body, tentatively pricked lightly at the place in the neck where he was intending to start severing the head. Then in the passing of a fraction of a second, he suddenly leapt backwards, as if he had received a most violent electric shock. He made sounds of choking, and his features were contorted into an expression of incredulous horror and amazement.

The man in the coffin had moved his head when the knife pricked him and had sighed deeply.

Perhaps a quarter of a minute passed and then the grave-digger, smiling a cold contemptuous smile, had recovered from his shock and, knife still in hand, was advancing again to the coffin. The apparent movement of the head had been the flickering of the lantern, he told himself, and the sigh had been the soughing of the wind! Men hermetically sealed in lead coffins were dead men, and the dead neither moved nor sighed!

So, once more, he bent over the body, but this time he had himself much better under control, when to his amazement he saw most unmistakably that the supposed dead man had got his eyes wide open. Daunt did not jump back, and, if his heart were beating wildly and he could hardly get his breath, there were no signs now of his former panic. He just stared and stared, as if he were fascinated by a snake.

Then, suddenly, the man in the coffin spoke. "I'm cold, I'm cold," he whispered faintly, "Cover me up."

Daunt swallowed hard several times and then spoke with a great effort. "What's happened?" he asked hoarsely. "How long have you been awake?"

But the man made no answer. He just closed his eyes and repeated weakly: "I'm cold, oh, I'm cold."

As a general rule Daunt was not a quick thinker, but realising now that the encoffined man was alive, thought after thought flashed through him as quick as lightning and he envisioned a long trail of dreadful consequences for himself from which, for the moment, there seemed no way of escape.

If he bolted away at once and left the supposed dead man to his fate, then, of course, the latter would die, and when the masons arrived to brick up the coffin the following week, everything would be discovered, and it would be seen the vaults had been broken into. If, on the other hand, he released the man, then directly the latter was able to disclose his identity to anyone, the same fact would become known.

Then, in either case, it was certain that he, Daunt, would become suspected at once, as the innkeeper had seen him upon three occasions in the vicinity of the churchyard. Once his occupation was known, everyone would, of course, jump to the conclusion that he would be the very person who would have no qualms about tampering with the coffins of the dead.

Of course, there was one way out of it. He could dispatch the helpless man and proceed as if he had found him dead when he had opened the coffin.

But to the grave-digger's credit he never gave to this last idea a second thought. There were limits to his lawlessness and he drew the line a long way from murder. Indeed, in his surly way and behind his intense reserve, he was quite kind-hearted, and children and animals always took to him.

He quickly made up his mind what he would do. Leaving no traces behind so that it could be seen someone had entered the vaults, he would carry the awakened man straightaway to Professor Panther, throwing upon the latter all the responsibility of finding some way out of the difficulty.

His actions became quick and certain. With a steady hand he ripped up the leaden coffin down all its length, and lifting its occupant out, laid him upon the floor. Then he squeezed the torn lead back into its oak shell, screwed down the lid and with a supreme effort restored the coffin to its place upon the shelf.

Seeing that the baronet had got his eyes closed and was now breathing evenly and quietly as if he were asleep, he picked him up and, running swiftly out of the vaults, deposited him in the sidecar hidden in the plantation. Fortunately the night was warm and the unconscious man continued to sleep on.

Then Daunt returned down into the vaults and gathered all his things together, sweeping his torch round many times to make sure he was leaving nothing behind. Finally, he relocked the narrow door and two minutes later was manhandling the sidecar outfit with its sleeping passenger down on to the main road.

So it came about that just after half-past one that night Professor Panther was aroused from the armchair in his study where he was reading by a gentle tapping upon the window. He knew who it must be, for he had been expecting Daunt, and he tiptoed to the hall door and opened it.

"All right?" he queried in an excited whisper, and then taking in the nature of the burden the grave-digger was carrying, he exclaimed sharply, "But who's this? Who have you brought here?"

"The man himself," grunted Daunt. "I found he was alive when I opened the coffin."

"Alive!" ejaculated the professor, and his voice would have been a shriek if he had not been whispering. "Alive, when you opened the coffin."

"Yes, he spoke to me," replied Daunt, "and said he was cold."

"But is he alive now?" asked the professor, all of a tremble.

"Yes, but he's asleep. He hasn't spoken a word since, but he's breathing all right."

"Well, don't stand there like a block of wood," panted the professor. "Bring him in at once." His voice shook with excitement. "But, oh, this is interesting! One of those rare cases of catalepsy!"

Daunt carried the sleeping man into the study and, laying him upon the sofa, the professor proceeded to examine him quickly. "Yes, he seems quite all right," he ejaculated. Then he bent down and whispered loudly in his ear, "Hullo, hullo, who are you? Come, wake up now," but he received no response, and the recumbent man continued to sleep on. Then the professor turned back to the grave-digger and asked breathlessly, "Now, are you quite certain that leaden coffin was sealed hermetically?"

Daunt nodded. "Quite, it was well soldered up all round."

Then a thought came suddenly into the professor's mind, and on the instant he looked very frightened and shook his head. "But this will be very awkward for me—most awkward," he exclaimed. He glared angrily at the grave-digger. "Why did you bring him here?"

"Where else could I have taken him?" growled Daunt. "I had to bring him out of the vaults and——"

"Yes, yes, of course," interrupted the professor testily. "It was only common humanity! But why didn't you leave him upon some well-frequented road where he would have been picked up by someone immediately?"

"Yes," scoffed Daunt, "and then directly he told them who he was they would go and look at his coffin and I should be the first one to be suspected of having opened it." He went on to relate of his three encounters with the innkeeper and how no doubt the press photographer had made known to him who he, Daunt, was.

Then he pointed to the still sleeping man. "But, as it is, he'll certainly remember me and then——"

"No, no, he's not likely to remember you at all," broke in the professor quickly. "When he comes to, he'll probably remember nothing from the time he fell into this coma"—he shrugged his shoulders—"and his memory of things before that will most probably continue to be very hazy for a long time to come. So you need not be afraid of anything at all."

"Then what are you going to do with him now?" asked Daunt.

The professor hesitated. "W—ell, I shall have to keep him here under my eye for the present. That's certain." He became brisk and animated all at once. "Now you shall help me to give him a hot bath and then carry him for me into my spare bedroom. Fortunately, it's on this floor and my two servants sleep at the end of the house. Then to-morrow I'll explain to them he's a relation of mine who arrived here in the middle of the night, very sick. Fortunately again, they have not been with me very long and know little of my private affairs, so they will take anything I say without doubting it." He looked scared again. "But the whole business is certainly most awkward, and what to do later on I shall just have to decide when the time comes." He laughed rather hysterically. "But, ye gods, what an adventure for a man of my age!"

The following morning the baronet was running a high temperature and, fearful of what would happen if he died, the professor called in another medical man, and two nurses were at once engaged. Mentally, the patient was very much in the same condition. Certainly he had opened his eyes, but he did not speak and apparently took nothing in. All the time he just lay staring into vacancy. He had to be fed with a spoon and mechanically swallowed everything that was put in his mouth.

A very anxious week for the professor followed. To everyone he told the same tale, that the sick man was a cousin of his who had just returned from abroad, and finding himself suddenly ill, had come to him, the professor, as the only relation he had in England. The patient's temperature gradually went down and in ten days he was out of bed and able to sit up in an armchair, but still he said no word and took no notice of anybody or anything.

And so, from day to day, things drifted on in the same uneventful way, except that, physically, the baronet began to show a marked improvement. It had turned out to be a particularly fine summer, and sitting out in the garden for many hours each day, his face had assumed a healthy and bronzed colour. By the end of six weeks he had grown a beard and, nicely trimmed, it gave him quite a distinguished appearance.

"By Jove, Panther," remarked Dr. Benmichael, who had called several times and been told the usual story, "he looks much too handsome to be any relation of yours. There must be a mistake somewhere."

The doctor was very interested in the case and frankly admitted he could not understand it in the least. "It looks to me," he said, "as if he had received some dreadful shock, and I would not like to prophesy about his recovery. The longer he remains in this state, of course, the more doubtful it is he will ever become normal again. This continued and so pronounced helplessness, apart from his amnesia, is not a hopeful sign."

And certainly Sir Eric Roding could not have been more helpless. He was just like a new-born animal, but without even the instincts of one. He did absolutely nothing for himself, and never showed the faintest interest in anything. His eyes never wandered and, except when he was blinking, they were always staring before him. He could walk, but someone had always to be beside him and when they took his hand to guide him there was never any answering grip in his fingers.

The professor had, of course, done nothing to establish any communication with Sir Eric's relations, salving his conscience that it was far better for them to believe him dead rather than to have restored to them the mindless being the baronet now was.

But the anxiety was undoubtedly preying upon the professor's mind, and in his quiet moments he began to get worried about his own state of health. He could not sleep now without large and increasing doses of hypnotics; he kept on forgetting the simplest things, and many, many times he found himself talking aloud to himself. He told Dr. Benmichael about it, but while looking at him very curiously the doctor pooh-poohed the whole matter and advised him to think nothing more about it.

Then ten weeks to the day from when Sir Eric had been brought to the professor's house, he suddenly refused to take his food. He kept his mouth shut tightly and, with no expression whatever upon his face, kept turning his head away and struggling violently.

Very disturbed, the professor rang up Dr. Benmichael, and the latter appeared within the hour. "Of course he'll have to be nasal-fed," he said at once, "and I'd better have him at my place. You can't manage him here."

"Then he'll have to be certified," said the professor uncomfortably.

The doctor nodded. "There'll be no difficulty there. In fact to my thinking he ought to have been certified many weeks ago."

"Well, it will be a great load off my mind," said the professor.

"Has he any means?" asked the doctor tentatively. "Because if not, I'll——"

"Oh, he's quite well off," was the instant rejoinder of the professor, "and he can pay the usual ordinary fee. There'll be no difficulty at all there, as I happen to be holding certain moneys of his in trust. Now what would you charge a perfect stranger?"

"Twelve guineas a week," replied the doctor, "but as he is a relation of yours I'm quite agreeable to make it less."

"No, twelve guineas let it be," nodded Professor Panther. "I have good reason to know you are a good friend of mine, but this is quite a business transaction." So two strange doctors and a local justice of the peace, one Admiral Fenwick, visited Sir Eric that morning. The two medical men were instantaneous in their decision, but the admiral, full of his own importance, asked many questions of the professor and the nurse before he finally expressed himself as willing to sign the order for the reception of the baronet into an asylum. Then he was quite sure he was doing the right thing, for as one who could always enjoy a good dinner himself, his opinion was that anyone in perfect physical condition who refused food must undoubtedly be mentally unbalanced.

So Sir Eric Roding was taken to the asylum, and yet another chapter closed in the romantic life story of the eleventh baronet of the line.

About a week later Professor Panther motored over to tell Daunt everything that had happened. "So you need not worry any more!" he said, "for everything is quite safe now. No one can determine how long Sir Eric may remain in his present state of mind, and when he does get well, if indeed he does ever"—he shrugged his shoulders—"Heaven alone knows how he is going to be restored to his family." He sighed heavily. "I've seen his wife. I went to Ashleigh St. Mary last Sunday and she was in the church. She's a beautiful little thing, but looks, oh, so dreadfully sad! All the time, too, during the service her eyes kept wandering towards the lady chapel and those flagstones through which she knows her husband was lowered down."

"But it was not our fault," commented the grave-digger gruffly. "I saved him from a dreadful death."

"Yes, yes," nodded the professor eagerly, "we have done him a great service." He sighed heavily again. "But I can't see how it's all going to end."