The sleek and pampered black horses panted and foamed; but the coachmen cared not—they were well paid for what they were doing.
Down Union Street rolled the chariot and the hearse—into the Blackfriars Road—up the wide thoroughfare to the river—over the bridge—along Farringdon Street—and through Smithfield to Clerkenwell Green.
In an incredibly short space of time, the two vehicles stopped at the door of a house in Red Lion Street.
Dr. Lascelles was the first to leap from the mourning coach, and, taking a key from his pocket, he opened the door of the house, into which, quickly as active men could move or work, the coffin was borne from the hearse.
Jacob Smith was helped out immediately afterwards, and he followed the Earl, the physician, and the three servants into the house, while the mourning coach and the hearse still waited at the door.
A quarter of an hour afterwards, the coffin, with the lid now screwed down, was borne back to the hearse;—the three servants returned to the mourning coach, and the funeral procession was set in motion again—but with slow and suitable solemnity.
In another half hour, the coffin, with the name of "Thomas Rainford" upon the plate, was interred in St. Luke's churchyard; and thus ended this ceremony.
But did that coffin really contain the cold corse of the once gallant highwayman?
No: it had been hastily filled with stones and straw at the house in Red Lion Street.
And the body——