‘And if he is dead I know not. He fancied that the turnkeys had discovered his flight and were in pursuit of him,—that they had climbed up the chimney,—entered the Red Room,— tracked him from door to door, and were now only detained by the gate which he had left unbroken in the chapel. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. Wood bore up with great fortitude against the shock, attended the inquest, delivered his evidence with composure, and gave directions afterwards for the funeral, which took place on the day but one following—Sunday. If you don’t like it, I won’t be mad, I promise. She could hear the raucous laughter and bad music below.
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