Four men were in the room, all dressed in black. One had his hat on; the hats of the other three were together on a single chair. An oak coffin stood on a black velvet pall, which doubtless covered trestles. Two men, one at either end, were screwing on the lid. A third was prowling about the room. The fourth--the one with his hat on--was standing, with his hands in his pockets, surveying the proceedings. They all glanced towards me as I entered, unmistakably taken by surprise. The fourth man, withdrawing his hands from his pockets, made haste to remove his hat. The prowler came hurrying towards the others. 'You're--you're not closing the coffin?' 'Yes, sir. By Mr. Tattenham's instructions.' 'But it's not time.' 'Excuse me, sir, but it is. The coffin has to be placed in the van before it's attached to the train; and that means some time before it's due to start. Did you wish, sir, to see him?' I felt dazed; filled with a whirl of confused thoughts. The voice of the undertaker's man sounded to me like a voice in a dream. 'See him. Is he'--I was about to add 'in there?' Because it seemed incredible that even so consummate an artist as Mr. Montagu Babbacombe could consent to remain quiescent while being consigned to a living tomb. But the question in such a form might have seemed too suggestive; so I substituted, 'Is he all right?' It seemed that the man somewhat mistook my drift. 'Perfectly, sir. Make a fine photograph, sir. Looks calm and peaceful; as well as he possibly could look. We can easily remove the lid; would you like to see him, sir?' 'See him? No. I--I don't want to see him.' 'In that case, since the lid is closed, we'll be starting, sir, if you don't mind.' I do not know what I said. Something, I suppose; because shouldering the coffin there and then, they started. They carried it from the room and bore it from my sight. I remained behind, picturing the man inside fighting for freedom. I wondered when the struggle would begin. What was that? I thought I heard a voice calling to me from the stairs without; a voice I seemed to know. I went to the door and listened. Not a sound. Across the hall below passed the four men in black, bearing the living man shut up in the box upon their shoulders. Was he already tapping at the inner shell? Would they hear him if he were? The shell was presumably a substantial one; the wood of the outer coffin thick. He would be shrouded in his winding-clothes; his movements would be cumbered. He would quite possibly be unable to rap with sufficient force to make them hear him. He might call; or try to. In that stifling atmosphere would he be able to use his voice?