weeks—a bunch of foreigners—they couldn't speak no language we all could, anyway."
With both forefingers punched into her round dimpled cheeks, she contemplated Nick.
"Your pa wasn't liked in the village. He was a vengeful unforgiving man, never let up on anybody he hated. And he himself had built a coffin, grand thing that it was! All silver, too big for him, I always said, withering away as he was—cancer, you know." Her tongue clucked pityingly. "But keeping that coffin in his bedroom with him, right beside his bed! Don't you think that's queer?"
"Slightly," Nick said, looking out at the tomb.
The setting sun hit the coppery cross on its top, sparkling above the dull time-blackened walls, with a gloomy light of its own. There was nothing cheerful about the mausoleum or this house. Well, he would not be here much longer. He would put the place on the market; anyone who wanted it could buy it, tomb and all.
A car had just rattled up the drive. "I think that must be your son, Mrs. Briggs," Nick said. "Big black Buick?"
"That's Bob."
Mrs. Briggs put on her coat quickly.
"If I were you, Mr. Carruthers," she said, looking back at him, "I'd trot right into town with Bob and me. To my mind, this here place ain't healthy in the dark."
"Oh, thanks," he said. "I shan't stay more than an hour or so longer. Goodnight."
When the car had sputtered away again down the drive, silence descended on the house, the creaking silence of a place of many shut-up rooms, long dark passages, great empty attics—the silence seemed to spread away from about Nick and the small study, lighted by the leaping fire. Frowning, he looked out at the darkening tomb. The sooner this disagreeable job was over, the better.
He lifted the receiver of the telephone on the desk, wondering if it were still connected; he would need a taxi later. Yes, a quiet humming buzz like the noise of a hive of bees came from it. Now where would he find the needed things? The house was a wealthy house, beautifully equipped. But it was not his, it was a stranger's—he didn't know where anything was. Tools would be somewhere about the working part of the house, the kitchens, the garage, the potting-sheds. The list of things he wanted began going through his head: chisels, lantern. . . .
He turned and looked back. The lighted study windows showed warm and homely. Moving his coat collar up about his ears, Nick shivered a little. The light of the bobbing lantern shone on silvery frost like jewels on the grass, the dark trees upon whose bare branches a few late-October leaves of scarlet and yellow lingered still. The air was very cold and crisp, with the odor of wood smoke from the chimney behind him tingling in it.
Five minutes more of brisk walking brought him after a turn in the path face to face with the dark bulking shadows of the mausoleum. The heavy outer bronze doors, greenish and corroded by time, were twice as high as his head, although he was a tall man; the glass of the colored windows gave back the winking lantern-light. There was not much oil in the lantern, but it should be sufficient for the half-hour he would spend here. A depressing spot, he thought, listening to a light breath of wind go softly through the almost leafless trees as he fumbled with the key marked Outside. He had no stomach for the job. Who would? Entering the tomb that held the
