"Oh, sir, you aren't going to die!"
"That's what I'm afraid of, Biggs. But they'll call me dead and go ahead and embalm me and make sure of it."
"Oh, sir, I wish——"
"Now remember, Biggs," broke in the sick man, "shoot the first undertaker that tries to put that mummy stuff in my veins."
"I understand perfectly, sir," answered Biggs, fearful lest the other's excitement might again give him a turn for the worse.
"I know I'm apparently going to pass away. My father and grandfather both had this cussed virus in their veins, and I don't believe either of them was dead when he was pronounced so!"
"Well, if by any chance—that is, if you," began Biggs desperately, "if you are apparently—dead—why not have them keep your body here in the house for a time?"
"Convention, formality, custom, hide-bound law!" the banker fairly frothed. "The health authorities would come here with an army and see that I was buried. No, Biggs, I've got a fine crypt out there, all quiet and secure, good ventilation, electric lights, like a pullman berth—and a push-button. That precludes all notoriety. It's secret and safe. The electrician who installed the apparatus died four years ago. So you and I, alone, possess this knowledge."
"Don't you think someone else should know of it too? Your attorney, or——"
"No, Biggs. If I really am dead I don't want anyone to write up my eccentricities for some Sunday magazine sheet. And if I do come back, then it will be time to tell the gaping public about my cleverness."