Four men, two on each side of what looked like a deep, narrow trench, were exerting all their strength to lift the coffin up out of what Jean knew to be the freshly opened grave of Harry Garlett’s wife. And, after what seemed to the agonized watcher a long, long time, they succeeded in their task. Then there came the sound of heavy, muffled footsteps; out of the darkness stepped two other men, and the six together placed the coffin on to a hand bier which Jean had not noticed before.
“They’ll take her to that cottage yonder: I helped to get it ready for ’em,” muttered her companion hoarsely.
“What cottage?” she asked, surprised.
“Not better than a dog kennel!—but good enough for the gentleman from London—him what they call a hanalist—’e who’s the cause of many a ’anging,” whispered the man.
And then Jean remembered that on the other side of the churchyard wall, standing in a field, was a kind of shanty which she knew had been condemned, largely owing to her uncle’s efforts, as unfit for human habitation some months ago.
She forced herself to ask what was to her an all-important question.
“Is it there that they’ll find out what Mrs. Garlett died from?”
“Lord, no!” he exclaimed, astonished at such ignorance, “that’s a long business—that’s done in London.”
“Then what will they do there?” she asked, puzzled and disappointed, and with no prevision of his answer.
“Well, missie, what’ll be done in that cottage over there won’t be a pleasant job. I’m glad I’m not in it.”