"There's the place," said the undertaker, pointing to the vault. "I'll
have it opened directly."
The scene was in accord with my feelings. The gray day gave a somber
air to the trees and flowers that grew about. The white tombstones and
occasional monuments to be seen were sad reminders of mortality.
Below me stretched the city, half-concealed by the magic drapery of the
fog that streamed through it, turning it from a place of wood and stone
into a fantastic illusion, heavy with gloom and sorrow.
It was soon over. The body of Henry Wilton was committed to the vault
with the single mourner looking on, and we drove rapidly back in the
failing light.
I had given my address at the undertaker's shop, and the hack stopped
in front of my house of mystery before I knew where we were. Darkness
had come upon the place, and the street-lamps were alight and the gas
was blazing in the store-windows along the thoroughfares. As I stepped
out of the carriage and gazed about me, I recognized the gloomy doorway
and its neighborhood that had greeted me on my first night in San
Francisco.
As I was paying the fare, a stout figure stepped up to me.
"Ah, Mr. Wilton, it's you again."
I turned in surprise. It was the policeman I had met on my first night
in San Francisco.
"Oh, Corson, how are you?" I said heartily, recognizing him at last. I
felt a sense of relief in the sight of him. The place was not one to
quiet my nerves after the errand from which I had just come.
Pages:
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123