The man entered the car with the same curious air of submission. From his ambush the vicar watched it turn and go swiftly away, past the widow’s cottage; and then faint of soul, but sustained by a sense of duty, he walked slowly down the road as far as Mrs. Bent’s. To that simple dame, who opened the door to his knock, he said: “Kindly tell your neighbor, Mrs. Smith, that John may be late for his supper, and that if he is not home by ten o’clock he may not return tonight.” Anxiously pondering whether he had taken the wisest and gentlest means of breaking the news to an invalid woman, Mr. Perry-Hennington returned to the vicarage. He passed a wakeful and unhappy night, in which he was troubled by many things; and at luncheon next day, in the course of a scene with Edith they gained intensity. “Did you know, father,” she said in a tone of acute distress, “that John Smith was removed last evening without the slightest warning?” The vicar admitted that he was aware of the fact. “And do you know,” said Edith, in a voice of growing emotion, “that the shock killed his mother?” “Killed his mother!” Mr. Perry-Hennington heard that news for the first time. “The old lady is dead!” “She died last night.” The vicar was much upset. He did not speak for some time, but at last he said: “Someone has blundered. I warned her neighbor, Mrs. Bent, to be particularly careful how she broke the news to her. I was at pains to choose Mrs. Bent, a sensible woman whom I thought I could trust. I felt the shock would be less if the news came from a neighbor instead of from me. But I see”--bitterness mingled now with the concern in the vicar’s tone--“that it would have been far wiser had I taken the whole responsibility upon myself.” “I’m not sure that it would,” said Edith. “Mrs. Bent says the poor thing knew what had happened without being told.” “She couldn’t have known anything of the kind. That’s quite impossible. Every precaution was taken to spare her a shock. I saw to it myself that all the arrangements were properly carried out. Last evening at dusk a car with two attendants from Wellwood Sanatorium drove up to the common, popped the poor fellow inside and took him away without a soul in the village being the wiser. I was there and saw the thing done. It went without a hitch. No one was by, that I will swear to. And then I went to Mrs. Bent and I said: ‘Kindly tell Mrs. Smith that John may be late for his supper, and that if he is not home by ten o’clock he may not return tonight.’ Not another word was said. Ever since I got the magistrates’ order I have given the matter anxious consideration. The details of the plan were most carefully thought out in order to spare the poor old woman as much as possible, and to defeat public curiosity. Moreover, I am quite sure that unless Mrs. Bent exceeded her instructions, which is hardly likely to have been the case, the poor old thing could not have died from shock.”