The murdered man had been buried the previous day, and a vast concourse of people had attended the funeral. Reginald--still very weak--and Florence were the chief mourners, and in their carriage were Inspector Robson and his wife. There was but one other mourning carriage, and this was occupied by Dick and the poor charwoman who had been fitfully employed domestically by the deceased. The newspapers devoted columns to descriptions of the funeral and to those pictorial sketches of personages and incidents which have become almost a craze in up-to-date journalism. Standing by the grave, Dick, looking over the heads of the people, saw Gracie and her mother and Dr. Vinsen, side by side. Mrs. Death was in tears, Gracie wore her accustomed impassive expression, and Dr. Vinsen bared his halo to the skies.
"My young friend, my dear young friend," he said, sidling up to Dick, "this is the end of a crafty life, but let us extend our pity--ex-tend our pi-ty. The grave, like charity, covereth a multitude of sins. We will be clement; we will soften our judgment; it is the least we can do in the presence of death, in the solemn presence of death. If it teaches us a lesson, Mr. Samuel Boyd will not have lived in vain."
"What lesson?" asked Dick, half angrily; the voice, the manner, jarred upon him.
"The lesson of humility, of charity--sweet charity--of justice."
"You call the life that ends here," said Dick, pointing to the grave, "a crafty life. Where does justice come in?"
"Ah, my young friend," responded Dr. Vinsen, shaking his head remonstrantly, "ah, my dear young friend!"
"Meaning--what?" demanded Dick.
"Meaning that you are young, that you have much to learn, much to unlearn."
"You speak in enigmas," said Dick. "Good day."
"Not in anger," said Dr. Vinsen, gently, "not in anger, my dear young friend, lest the dead rise to reproach you."