Shep’s car had battered through the wooden fence that protected the road where it curved into the wooden bridge and had plunged into the narrow ravine. Bruce and Carroll flung themselves down the steep bank and into the stream. Shep’s head lay across his arms on the wheel; Whitford evidently had tried to leap out before the car struck. His body, half out of the door, had been crushed against the fence, but clung in its place through the car’s flight over the embankment. V To the world Franklin Mills showed what passed for a noble fortitude and a superb resignation in Shep’s death. Carroll had carried the news to him; and Carroll satisfied the curiosity of no one as to what Mills had said or how he had met the blow. Carroll himself did not know what passed through Franklin Mills’ mind. Mills had asked without emotion whether the necessary things had been done, and was satisfied that Carroll had taken care of everything. Mills received the old friends who called, among them Lindley. It was a proper thing to see the minister in such circumstances. The rector of St. Barnabas went away puzzled. He had never understood Mills, and now his rich parishioner was more of an enigma than ever. A handful of friends chosen by Constance and Mills heard the reading of the burial office in the living-room of Shep’s house. Constance remained in her room; and Mills saw her first when they met in the hall to drive together to the cemetery, an arrangement that she herself had suggested. No sound came from her as she stood between Mills and Leila at the grave as the last words were said. A little way off stood the bearers, young men who had been boyhood friends of Shep, and one or two of his associates from the trust company. When the grave was filled Constance waited, watching the placing of the flowers, laying her wreath of roses with her own hands. She took Mills’s arm and they returned to their car. No word was spoken as it traversed the familiar streets. The curtains were drawn; Mills stared fixedly at the chauffeur’s back; the woman beside him made no sign. Nothing, as he thought of it, had been omitted; his son had been buried with the proper rites of the church. There had been no bungling, no hysterical display of grief; no crowd of the morbidly curious. When they reached Shep’s house he followed Constance in. There were women there waiting to care for her, but she sent them away and went into the reception parlor. The scent of flowers still filled the rooms, but the house had assumed its normal orderly aspect. Constance threw back her veil, and Mills saw for the first time her face with its marks of suffering, her sorrowing eyes. “Had you something to say to me?” she asked quietly. “If you don’t mind----” he answered. “I couldn’t come to you before--but now--I should like you to know----” As he paused she began to speak slowly, as if reciting something she had committed to memory.