“Yes. He’s been under water a long time, Miss; but they’ve grappled up the body.”

“Let ’em bring it here. You, Bob Gliddery, shut the house-door and stand by it on the inside, and don’t you open till I tell you. Any police down there?”

“Here, Miss Abbey,” was official rejoinder.

“After they have brought the body in, keep the crowd out, will you? And help Bob Gliddery to shut ’em out.”

“All right, Miss Abbey.”

The autocratic landlady withdrew into the house with Riah and Miss Jenny, and disposed those forces, one on either side of her, within the half-door of the bar, as behind a breastwork.

“You two stand close here,” said Miss Abbey, “and you’ll come to no hurt, and see it brought in. Bob, you stand by the door.”

That sentinel, smartly giving his rolled shirt-sleeves 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.”

The entry being low, and the staircase being low, they so took up the burden they had set down, as to carry that low. The recumbent figure, in passing, lay hardly as high as the half door.

Miss Abbey started back at sight of it. “Why, good God!” said she, turning to her two companions, “that’s the very man who made the declaration we have just had in our hands. That’s Riderhood!”