Stephen looked up. "Yes," he said; "why not?" But he knew very well why not. Because of a certain insane sense of decency which governs even a murderer in the presence of death. Emily Gaunt must not be "got away" like that! Besides, it would be dangerous. He thought for a moment. Then, "No," he said. "Wait a minute," and clattered down the basement stairs. When he came back he was trailing behind him a long and capacious sack, which had hung on a nail in the scullery for the receipt of waste paper and bottles and odds and ends of domestic refuse. The sack, fortunately, had been only half full. All its contents he had tumbled recklessly on the scullery floor. But as he came up the stairs he was curiously disturbed by the thought of that refuse. What was to be done with it? What would Margery say? The scullery had been recently cleaned out, he knew. And the sack? How could he explain its disappearance? These damned details. "Here you are," he said. "This will do," and he laid the sack on the floor. He began to put Emily into the sack. He drew the mouth of the sack over her feet. They were already cold. John Egerton stood stiffly under the light, in a kind of paralysis of disgust. He felt "I must help!... I must help!" but somehow he could not move a finger. The sack was over the knees now. It was strangely difficult. The toes kept catching. But Stephen was fantastically preoccupied with the refuse on the scullery floor, with coming explanations about the sack. "There'll be an awful row," he said ... "the hell of a mess down there ... what shall I say about the sack?" Then, suddenly, "What shall I say, John?... Think of something, for God's sake!" John Egerton jumped. The wild incongruity of Stephen's question scarcely occurred to him. He tried solemnly to think of something to say about the sack. He would be helpful here, surely. But no thought came. His mind was a confused muddle of night-dresses and inquests and naked legs and Margery Byrne--Margery Byrne arriving quietly on the doorstep--Margery Byrne scandalized, agonized, hideously, fatally ill. "I don't know, Stephen," he said feebly--"I don't know ... say you ... oh, anything." He was fascinated now by the progress of the sack, which had nearly covered the legs. He saw clearly that a moment was coming when he would _have_ to help, when one of them would have to lift Emily and one of them manipulate the sack. Already Stephen was cursing and in difficulties. The night-dress kept rucking up and had to be pulled back, and when that was done the sack lost ground again. "Oh, hell!" he said, with a note of final exasperation, "lend a hand, John--lift her a bit," and then as John still hesitated, sick with reluctance, "Oh, _lift_ her, can't you?"