passed of unremitting energy upon the part of Morris, of lukewarm help

on that of John; and still the trench was barely nine inches in depth.

Into this the body was rudely flung: sand was piled upon it, and then

more sand must be dug, and gorse had to be cut to pile on that; and

still from one end of the sordid mound a pair of feet projected and

caught the light upon their patent-leather toes. But by this time the

nerves of both were shaken; even Morris had enough of his grisly task;

and they skulked off like animals into the thickest of the neighbouring

covert.

'It's the best that we can do,' said Morris, sitting down.

'And now,' said John, 'perhaps you'll have the politeness to tell me

what it's all about.'

'Upon my word,' cried Morris, 'if you do not understand for yourself, I

almost despair of telling you.'

'O, of course it's some rot about the tontine,' returned the other. 'But

it's the merest nonsense. We've lost it, and there's an end.'

'I tell you,' said Morris, 'Uncle Masterman is dead. I know it, there's

a voice that tells me so.'

'Well, and so is Uncle Joseph,' said John.

The Wrong Box