It grew darker. Neal strolled along by the skirting shrubs of the garden, and took his stand at the front gate, ready to exchange courtesies with the people who would soon be going home from church or chapel. The moon did not give much light yet, but the night promised to be as clear and bright as the previous one had been.
"Holloa!" cried Neal, as a man he knew came up quickly. "You are in a hurry tonight."
"I have been out on business, Mr. Neal," replied the man, who was in fact an assistant to a carpenter and undertaker. "Our work can't always wait for the Sabbath to go by before it is seen to."
"Is anybody dead?" asked Neal.
"Lady Oswald. The message came down to us best part of an hour ago; so I've been up there."
It has been observed that Neal was too well trained a gentleman both in manners and nerves to express much surprise, but this answer caused him the very greatest shock. He was so startled as to take refuge in disbelief.
"Lady Oswald, did you say? But she's not dead!"
"But she is," replied the man. "I ought to know. I've just come from her."
"Why, what has she died of? They said the railway accident had not materially hurt her."
"She haven't died of the accident. She have died of that--that--what-you-call-it--as is give to folks to take the pain out of 'em."