"Dear Sir—Please quietly deliver a full-sized coffin at No. — South St. Paul Street, at the first room to the right of the stairway as it reaches the third floor. Enclosed please find five dollars, in part payment. Will make it an object to you to ask no questions below, and deliver the coffin as soon after dark as possible.
(Signed) "Mrs. A. J. W——."
Mr. Boxem was by no means a solemn man; but he had a heavy bass voice, which he used to such great effect in asking questions below stairs, that he succeeded in creating a fine horror there, so that by the time he had proceeded to Mrs. Winslow's rooms, it was settled in the minds of the tobacconist and the milliner, their employees, and any customers of either who had happened in during Mr. Boxem's preliminary investigation, that each and every one's previous solemn prediction as to "something being wrong upstairs" had now come true, as they each and every one reminded the other that "Oh, I told you so!"
Mr. Boxem, finding Mrs. Winslow's door ajar, quietly stepped in and reverently removed his sombre crape hat.
"Evening, ma'am," he said politely, but with a professional shade of sympathy in the greeting.
"And what do you want?" she asked in a kind of desperation, noticing an open letter in his hand.
"Your order, you know," he replied tenderly; "these things are sad and have to be borne. Can't possibly be helped, more 'n one can help coming into the world."
Mrs. Winslow could not reply from rage and anger, and hiding her face in her hands, walked to the window.
"No, it's the way of the world," continued Boxem, with a sigh; "ah—hem!—might I ask if it is in there?" he concluded, producing a tape-line case.
"It?—in God's name, what it!" sobbed the woman.