"The casket is not to be opened again," the sheriff said sternly. "Understand, Thompson--under no circumstances is it to be opened," and turning he mounted the staircase and found Betty standing at the top landing, waiting for him. "I heard what you said," she stated. "And would like an explanation of your extraordinary conduct." "There is nothing extraordinary about it," Trenholm replied quietly. "If you really insist upon an explanation--" "I do," her passion rising. "Paul died Monday night--this is Thursday," he spoke gravely. "A change has already set in and it is not possible to keep the casket open longer." Betty was thankful for the railing of the stairs to lean against. "I have never been permitted to be with him--" "I beg your pardon--you have." "Never alone." She had turned ghastly in color. "Always you have had some one stationed in the room." Trenholm looked at her in growing concern. "Hadn't you better rest?" he asked. "The funeral will take place in twenty minutes." Trenholm was doubtful if she heard him, so fixed was her stare. He turned quickly to see what had focused her attention. Standing by the newel post was Alexander Nash in earnest conversation with Alan Mason and a third man, the rector of the Episcopal church at Upper Marlboro. Trenholm laid his hand on Betty's arm. It was shaken off instantly and she shot down the hall to her bedroom without further word. Trenholm stood in thought for several minutes and then joined Alan Mason. The hands of the grandfather clock in the living room were pointing to three when the funeral services commenced. Betty, accompanied by Alexander Nash, was the last to enter and take the seat reserved for her by Alan Mason's side. A few friends from Washington had motored out to Abbott's Lodge, while the residents in the vicinity had come in a body to attend the services. Upstairs in her bedroom Mrs. Nash motioned to Somers to come to her, and with reluctance the Englishwoman left her post by the door where she had been keeping an attentive ear for all that was transpiring below. "Help me up," ordered Mrs. Nash, in a tone Somers had learned not to disregard. "Get my slippers and wrapper." She was panting from her exertions when she finally reached the hall door, a protesting Somers struggling to steady her with a feverish grasp of her elbow. "Tut, be quiet, Somers; I can't hear a word," and Mrs. Nash appeared in the hall and peered down it. Shifting her husband's cane, which she had picked up on her way from the room, to the other hand, she rested her weight on Somers' arm, and went slowly to the top of the staircase. From there she could hear in the stillness the words of the Episcopal service. When she raised her head after the final prayer, Somers saw that her cheeks were wet with tears.