I

London on a November Sunday inspired Eustace Reynolds with a melancholy too insistent to be ignored and too causeless to be enjoyed. The grey sky overhead between the house-tops, the cold wind round every street-corner, the sad faces of the men and women on the pavements, combined to create an atmosphere of ineloquent misery. Eustace was sensitive to impressions, and in spite of a half-conscious effort to remain a dispassionate spectator of the world’s melancholy, he felt the chill of the aimless day creeping over his spirit. Why was there no sun, no warmth, no laughter on the earth? What had become of all the children who keep laughter like a mask on the faces of disillusioned men? The wind blew down Southampton Street, and chilled Eustace to a shiver that passed away in a shudder of disgust at the sombre colour of life. A windy Sunday in London before the lamps are lit, tempts a man to believe in the nobility of work.

At the corner by Charing Cross Telegraph Office a man thrust a handbill under his eyes, but he shook his head impatiently. The blueness of the fingers that offered him the paper was alone sufficient to make him disinclined to remove his hands from his pockets even for an instant. But, the man would not be dismissed so lightly.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, following him, “you have not looked to see what my bills are.”

“Whatever they are I do not want them.”

“That’s where you are wrong, sir,” the man said earnestly. “You will never find life interesting if you do not lie in wait for the unexpected. As a matter of fact, I believe that my bill contains exactly what you do want.”

Eustace looked at the man with quick curiosity. His clothes were ragged, and the visible parts of his flesh were blue with cold, but his eyes were bright with intelligence and his speech was that of an educated man. It seemed to Eustace that he was being regarded with a keen expectancy, as though his decision I on the trivial point was of real importance.

“I don’t know what you are driving at,” he said, “but if it will give you any pleasure I will take one of your bills; though if you argue with all your clients as you have with me, it must take you a long time to get rid of them.”

“I only offer them to suitable persons,” the man said, folding up one of the handbills while he spoke, “and I’m sure you will not regret taking it,” and he slipped the paper into Eustace’s hand and walked rapidly away.

Eustace looked after him curiously for a moment, and then opened the paper in his hand. When his eyes comprehended its significance, he gave a low whistle of astonishment. “You will soon be warning a coffin!” it read. “At 606, Gray’s Inn Road, your order will be attended to with civility and despatch. Call and see us!!”

Eustace swung round quickly to look for the man, but he was out of sight. The wind was growing colder, and the lamps were beginning to shine out in the greying streets. Eustace crumpled the paper into his overcoat pocket, and turned homewards.

“How silly!” he said to himself, in conscious amusement. The sound of his footsteps on the pavement rang like an echo to his laugh.
ii

Eustace was impressionable but not temperamentally morbid, and he was troubled a little by the fact that the gruesomely bizarre handbill continued to recur to his mind. The thing was so manifestly absurd, he told himself with conviction, that it was not worth a second thought, but this did not prevent him from thinking of it again and again. What manner of undertaker could hope to obtain business by giving away foolish handbills in the street? Really, the whole thing had the air of a brainless practical joke, yet his intellectual fairness forced him to admit that as far as the man who had given him the bill was concerned, brainlessness was out of the question, and joking improbable. There had been depths in those little bright eyes which his glance had not been able to sound, and the man’s manner in making him accept the handbill had given the whole transaction a kind of ludicrous significance.

“You will soon be wanting a coffin ——!”

Eustace found himself turning the words over and over in his mind. If he had had any near relations he might have construed the thing as an elaborate threat, but he was practically alone in the world, and it seemed to him that he was not likely to want a coffin for anyone but himself.

“Oh damn the thing!” he said impatiently, as he opened the door of his flat, “it isn’t worth worrying about. I mustn’t let the whim of some mad tradesman get on my nerves. I’ve got no one to bury, anyhow.”

Nevertheless the thing lingered with him all the evening, and when his neighbour the doctor came in for a chat at ten o’clock, Eustace was glad to show him the strange handbill. The doctor, who had experienced the queer magics that are practised to this day on the West Coast of Africa, and who, therefore, had no nerves, was delighted with so striking an example of British commercial enterprise.

“Though, mind you,” he added gravely, smoothing the crumpled paper on his knee, “this sort of thing might do a lot of harm if it fell into the hands of a nervous subject. I should be inclined to punch the head of the ass who perpetrated it. Have you turned that address up in the Post Office Directory?”

Eustace shook his head, and rose and fetched the fat red book which makes London an English city. Together they found the Gray’s Inn Road, and ran their eyes down to No. 606.

“‘Harding, G. J., Coffin Merchant and Undertaker.’ Not much information there,” muttered the doctor.

“Coffin merchant’s a bit unusual, isn’t it?” queried Eustace.

“I suppose he manufactures coffins wholesale for the trade. Still, I didn’t know they called themselves that. Anyhow, it seems, as though that handbill is a genuine piece of downright foolishness. The idiot ought to be stopped advertising in that way.”

“I’ll go and see him myself tomorrow,” said Eustace bluntly.

“Well, he’s given you an invitation,” said the doctor, “so it’s only polite of you to go. I’ll drop in here in the evening to hear what he’s like. I expect that you’ll find him as mad as a hatter.”

“Something like that,” said Eustace, “or he wouldn’t give handbills to people like me. I have no one to bury except myself.”

“No,” said the doctor in the hall, “I suppose you haven’t. Don’t let him measure you for a coffin, Reynolds!”

Eustace laughed.

“We never know,” he said sententiously.
iii

Next day was one of those gorgeous blue days of which November gives but few, and Eustace was glad to run out to Wimbledon for a game of golf, or rather for two. It was therefore dusk before he made his way to the Gray’s Inn Road in search of the unexpected. His attitude towards his ............