"Dead men?"
"Ah, I was coming to that. You see Mr.——?"
"Reynolds."
"Thank you, my name is Harding—G. J. Harding. You see, Mr. Reynolds, our intuitions are of a very special character, and if we say that you will need a coffin, it is probable that you will need one."
"You mean to say that I——"
"Precisely. In twenty-four hours or less, Mr. Reynolds, you will need our services."
The revelation of the coffin merchant's insanity came to Eustace with a certain relief. For the first time in the interview he had a sense of the dark empty shop and the whistling gas-jet over his head.
"Why, it sounds like a threat, Mr. Harding!" he said gaily.
The coffin merchant looked at him oddly, and produced a printed form from his pocket. "If you would fill this up," he said.
Eustace picked it up off the counter and laughed aloud. It was an order for a hundred-guinea funeral.