They two walked on till they reached the far end of the vast dim office. The clerks at the desks here scarcely pretended to work. A messenger entered and slapped down a small autophonic reel. “Here you are!” he cried. “Mister Wilbraham Lattimer’s last dying speech and record. He made a shockin’ end of it.” “Good for Lattimer!” a young voice called from a desk. “Chuck it over!” “Yes,” the messenger went on. “Lattimer said to his brother: ‘Bert, I haven’t time to worry about a little thing like dying these days, and what’s more important, _you_ haven’t either. You go back to your Somme doin’s, and I’ll put it through with Aunt Maria. It’ll amuse her and it won’t hinder you.’ That’s nice stuff for your boss!” The messenger whistled and departed. A clerk groaned as he snatched up the reel. “How the deuce am I to knock this into official shape?” he began. “Pass us the edifying Gantry Tubnell. I’ll have to crib from him again, I suppose.” “Be careful!” a companion whispered, and shuffled a typewritten form along the desk. “I’ve used Tubby twice this morning already.” The late Mr. Gantry Tubnell must have demised on approved departmental lines, for his record was much thumbed. Death and St. Peter watched the editing with interest. “I can’t bring in Aunt Maria _any_ way,” the clerk broke out at last. “Listen here, every one! She has heart-disease. She dies just as she’s lifted the dropsical Lattimer to change his sheets. She says: ‘Sorry, Willy! I’d make a dam’ pore ’ospital nurse!’ Then she sits down and croaks. Now _I_ call that good! I’ve a great mind to take it round to the War-side as an indirect casualty and get a breath of fresh air.” “Then you’ll be hauled over the coals,” a neighbour suggested. “I’m used to that, too,” the clerk sniggered. “Are you?” said Death, stepping forward suddenly from behind a high map-stand. “Who are you?” The clerk cowered in his skeleton jacket. “I’m not on the Regular Establishment, Sir,” he stammered. “I’m a--Volunteer. I--I wanted to see how people behaved when they were in trouble.” “Did you? Well, take the late Mr. Wilbraham Lattimer’s and Miss Maria Lattimer’s papers to the War-side General Reference Office. When they have been passed upon, tell the Attendance Clerk that you are to serve as probationer in--let’s see--in the Domestic Induced Casualty Side--7 G.S.” The clerk collected himself a little and spoke through dry lips. “But--but I’m--I slipped in from the Lower Establishment, Sir,” he breathed. There was no need to explain. He shook from head to foot as with the palsy; and under all Heaven none tremble save those who come from that class which “also believe and tremble.” “Do you tell Me this officially, or as one created being to another?” Death asked after a pause. “Oh, non-officially, Sir. Strictly non-officially, so long as you know all about it.” His awe-stricken fellow-workers could not restrain a smile at Death having to be told about anything. Even Death bit his lips.