That sentinel, smartly giving his rolled shirtsleeves an extra and a final tuck on his shoulders, obeyed.

Sound of advancing voices, sound of advancing steps. Shuffle and talk without. Momentary pause. Two peculiarly blunt knocks or pokes at the door, as if the dead man arriving on his back were striking at it with the soles of his motionless feet.

“That’s the stretcher, or the shutter, whichever of the two they are carrying,” said Miss Abbey, with experienced ear. “Open, you Bob!”

Door opened. Heavy tread of laden men. A halt. A rush. Stoppage of rush. Door shut. Baffled boots from the vexed souls of disappointed outsiders.

“Come on, men!” said Miss Abbey; for so potent was she with her subjects that even then the bearers awaited her permission. “First floor.”