Suddenly, as he was approaching the two bungalows, he stopped and listened. He thought he heard footsteps; but no sound met his ear, and he raised the handles of the barrow again. By this time he was midway between the bungalows and about to turn to the side-entrance of his own. Once more he stopped; he distinctly did hear footsteps crushing the gravel. “What is that? Anyone there?” cried a voice. And it was Ilam’s voice, full of fear. Carpentaria crept away to the shelter of his own wall, leaving the barrow that had become a bier in the midst of the path. Vaguely and dimly he saw the form of Ilam coming down the avenue, saw it stop uncertainly before the barrow, saw it bend down, and then he heard a shriek--a shriek of terror--loud, violent, and echoing, and Ilam fled away. Carpentaria heard him mount the steps of his house and fumble with the door, and then he heard the bang of the door. With all possible speed he rushed to the barrow, wheeled it into his garden, and thence to an outhouse, of which he carefully fastened the padlock. He stood some time hesitant in the avenue, wondering whether any further singular phenomenon would proceed from the Ilam house that night. His curiosity was rewarded. A most strange procession emerged presently from the bungalow. First came old Mrs. Ilam, dressed in a crimson dressing-gown, a white nightcap on her head, and carrying a lamp with an elaborate drawing-room shade. Carpentaria could see that the lamp shook in her trembling hand. Her hands always trembled, but her head never. She came down the steps with the deliberation of extreme old age, peering in front of her, and she was followed, timorously, by her son. The lamp threw a large circle of yellow light on the ground, and at intervals Mrs. Ilam held it up high so that it illuminated the faces of mother and son. They came into the middle of the avenue. It was now seriously raining. “I knew it wouldn’t be there,” Ilam whispered, in an awed tone. “It isn’t the sort of thing that stays. But I saw it--I saw the cloth and I saw a bit of its face.” Mrs. Ilam looked about her. “Nonsense, Jos,” she upbraided him, fixing her eyes on him in a sort of reproof. “It’s your imagination.” “It isn’t,” said Josephus. “I saw it; and what’s more, it was on a bier. That’s the worst--it was on a bier. Mother, he will haunt me all my life!” “Don’t talk so loud, child,” put in Mrs. Ilam. “You’d better go to bed.” “What’s the good of going to bed?” he inquired. “What! I took him and I buried him as safe as houses. I left him there, and I came straight back here, except that I was stopped by a watchman at the stables, who told me the horses seemed to be all frightened. And I had a talk to the fellow; and I find _it_ on a bier here, right in my path. And now it’s gone again.” “Come in,” said Mrs. Ilam. “And why were the horses frightened? That shows----” “Come in,” Mrs. Ilam repeated. “I’ll get you some hot milk, and you must try to sleep.”