There were no letters from grateful mourners, no little
model coffins, no photographs of marble memorials. Even more
surprising was the absence of any name over the shop-door, so that
the uninformed stranger could not possibly tell what trade was
carried on within, or who was responsible for the management of the
business. This uncommercial modesty did not tend to remove Eustace's
doubts as to the sanity of Mr. G. J. Harding; but he opened the
shop-door which started a large bell swinging noisily, and stepped
over the threshold. The shop was hardly more expressive inside than
out. A broad counter ran across it, cutting it in two, and in the
partial gloom overhead a naked gas-burner whistled a noisy song.
Beyond this the shop contained no furniture whatever, and no
stock-in-trade except a few planks leaning against the wall in one
corner. There was a large ink-stand on the counter. Eustace waited
patiently for a minute or two, and then as no one came he began
stamping on the floor with his foot. This proved efficacious, for
soon he heard the sound of footsteps ascending wooden stairs, the
door behind the counter opened and a man came into the shop.
He was dressed quite neatly now, and his hands were no longer blue
with cold, but Eustace knew at once that it was the man who had given
him the handbill. Nevertheless he looked at Eustace without a sign of
recognition.
"What can I do for you, sir?" he asked pleasantly.
Eustace laid the handbill down on the counter.
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