"Poor old Leicester, I wonder where he is now?" said the other.
The carriage door closed, and a few seconds later no one but himself stood at the graveside, save the workmen who were filling in the grave.
"There's not much grief nor sentiment about the matter," said Leicester as he walked away. "Still, it's been an experience worth having. I fancy I am one of the very few men who have ever attended their own funeral in this fashion."
When he got outside the cemetery he passed by a newsagent's shop, and noticed the placards on the board outside:
"THE CURSE OF DRINK: SAD END OF A BRILLIANT YOUNG POLITICIAN"
He went in and bought the paper, which could best be described as a kind of religious police news. When he got back to his room he read the article, which had used him for its text.
"I'm of some value to the world anyhow," he said with a laugh. "I should not be surprised if sermons are not preached about me on Sunday. It would be worth while to find it out. But there, no one would preach a funeral sermon about me, although I must say I should like to hear one."
"I'm finished with London, finished with the world now," he continued presently. "From this time I'm a dead man. Radford Leicester committed suicide, has been 'sat upon' by a coroner and jury, and has been buried. After all, I'm glad he's not buried at the expense of the public. Henceforth Radford Leicester is no more. Some one else takes his place. Now I must carry my plans into effect."