“It was not, indeed, sir, begging your pardon. I could tell Miss Cray anywhere, by her figure and her voice, without seeing her face. But I _did_ see her face, and remarked how awfully pale she was--just like death, sir!” “There! there! that will do! It’s of no consequence, and you can go back to your work.” But any one who had seen Mr. Braggett, when left alone in his office, would not have said he thought the matter of no consequence. The perspiration broke out upon his forehead, although it was December, and he rocked himself backward and forward in his chair with agitation. At last he rose hurriedly, upset his throne, and dashed through the outer premises in the face of twenty people waiting to speak to him. As soon as he could find his voice, he hailed a hansom, and drove to Hammersmith. Good Mrs. Thompson opening the door to him, thought he looked as if he had just come out of a fever. “Lor’ bless me, sir! whatever’s the matter?” “Mrs. Thompson, have you told me the truth about Miss Cray? Is she really dead?” “_Really dead_, sir! Why, I closed her eyes, and put her in the coffin with my own hands! If she ain’t dead, I don’t know who is! But if you doubt my word, you’d better ask the doctor that gave the certificate for her.” “What is the doctor’s name?” “Dodson; he lives opposite.” “You must forgive my strange questions, Mrs. Thompson, but I have had a terrible dream about my poor friend, and I think I should like to talk to the doctor about her.” “Oh, very good, sir,” cried the landlady, much offended. “I’m not afraid of what the doctor will tell you. She had excellent nursing and everything as she could desire, and there’s nothing on my conscience on that score, so I’ll wish you good morning.” And with that Mrs. Thompson slammed the door in Mr. Braggett’s face. He found Dr. Dodson at home. “If I understand you rightly,” said the practitioner, looking rather steadfastly in the scared face of his visitor, “you wish, as a friend of the late Miss Cray’s, to see a copy of the certificate of her death? Very good, sir; here it is. She died, as you will perceive, on the twenty-fifth of November, of peritonitis. She had, I can assure you, every attention and care, but nothing could have saved her.” “You are quite sure, then, she is dead?” demanded Mr. Braggett, in a vague manner. The doctor looked at him as if he were not quite sure if he were sane. “If seeing a patient die, and her corpse coffined and buried, is being sure she is dead, _I_ am in no doubt whatever about Miss Cray.” “It is very strange--most strange and unaccountable,” murmured poor Mr. Braggett, in reply, as he shuffled out of the doctor’s passage, and took his way back to the office.