Eustace was impressionable but not temperamentally morbid, and he was
troubled a little by the fact that the gruesomely bizarre handbill
continued to recur to his mind. The thing was so manifestly absurd,
he told himself with conviction, that it was not worth a second
thought, but this did not prevent him from thinking of it again and
again. What manner of undertaker could hope to obtain business by
giving away foolish handbills in the street? Really, the whole thing
had the air of a brainless practical joke, yet his intellectual
fairness forced him to admit that as far as the man who had given him
the bill was concerned, brainlessness was out of the question, and
joking improbable. There had been depths in those little bright
eyes which his glance had not been able to sound, and the man's
manner in making him accept the handbill had given the whole
transaction a kind of ludicrous significance.
"You will soon be wanting a coffin----!"
Eustace found himself turning the words over and over in his mind.
If he had had any near relations he might have construed the thing
as an elaborate threat, but he was practically alone in the world,
and it seemed to him that he was not likely to want a coffin for
anyone but himself.
"Oh damn the thing!" he said impatiently, as he opened the door of
his flat, "it isn't worth worrying about. I mustn't let the whim of
some mad tradesman get on my nerves. I've got no one to bury,
anyhow."
Nevertheless the thing lingered with him all the evening, and when
his neighbour the doctor came in for a chat at ten o'clock, Eustace
was glad to show him the strange handbill. The doctor, who had
experienced the queer magics that are practised to this day on the
West Coast of Africa, and who, therefore, had no nerves, was
delighted with so striking an example of British commercial
enterprise.
"Though, mind you," he added gravely, smoothing the crumpled paper on
his knee, "this sort of thing might do a lot of harm if it fell into
the hands of a nervous subject. I should be inclined to punch the
head of the ass who perpetrated it. Have you turned that address up
in the Post Office Directory?"
Eustace shook his head, and rose and fetched the fat red book which
makes London an English city. Together they found the Gray's Inn
Road, and ran their eyes down to No. 606.
"'Harding, G. J., Coffin Merchant and Undertaker.' Not much
information there," muttered the doctor.
"Coffin merchant's a bit unusual, isn't it?" queried Eustace.
"I suppose he manufactures coffins wholesale for the trade. Still, I
didn't know they called themselves that. Anyhow, it seems, as though
that handbill is a genuine piece of downright foolishness. The idiot
ought to be stopped advertising in that way."
"I'll go and see him myself tomorrow," said Eustace bluntly.
"Well, he's given you an invitation," said the doctor, "so it's only
polite of you to go. I'll drop in here in the evening to hear what
he's like. I expect that you'll find him as mad as a hatter."
"Something like that," said Eustace, "or he wouldn't give handbills
to people like me. I have no one to bury except myself."
"No," said the doctor in the hall, "I suppose you haven't. Don't let
him measure you for a coffin, Reynolds!"
Eustace laughed.
"We never know," he said sententiously.