"It is not too late to repair the wrong I have done my nephew," cried Trenchard. "It was silly. I loitered in the shop as you chatted with the butcher’s girl. You cannot draw. This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's. “But we only aid the beccamorti by giving them our business! I refuse to pay exorbitant prices for wood coffins and burial for lesser servants who could just as easily be dragged into the pit! Let the dead bury the dead!” “You fool! It is the gross lack of sanitation you speak of that has brought us to this very end. She turned up dead after about eight weeks and it broke my heart. ’ ‘What for?’ asked Gerald, half laughing, as he put his hand in his pocket and brought out his elegant pistol.
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