thing white glimmered in the opening of the window—something like a long bundle of linen, extruded inch by inch, then lowered on to the penthouse roof and let slide slowly down towards me.
"Got it?"
"Right." I steadied it a moment by its feet, then let it slide into my arms, and lowered it on to the gravelled path. It was the body of John Emmet, in his winding-sheet.
"Carry it into the shed," whispered the Vicar. "I must show Trudgeon the coffin and hand him the keys. When I've got rid of him I'll come round."
Somehow, the second time of handling it was far worse than the first. The chill of the corpse seemed to strike through its linen wrappers. But I lifted it inside, shut the door upon it, and stood wiping my forehead, while the Vicar closed the window cautiously, drew the blind, and pressed-to the clasp.
A minute later I heard him calling from the front, "Mr. Trudgeon—Mr. Trudgeon"; and Trudgeon's hob-nailed boots ascending the steps. Silence followed for many minutes: then a slant of candle-light faded off the fuchsia-bush round the corner, and the two men stumbled down the staircase—stood muttering on the doorstep while a key grated in the lock—stumbled down the steps and stood muttering in the .sunken roadway. At length they said "Good-night" and parted. I listened while
