Between them I caught a glimpse of starlight shining down
on rows of white headstones and an occasional more imposing
monument, or towering shaft. In spite of myself, I drew my
breath in sharply. We were on the edge of the Casanova
churchyard.
I saw now both the man who had joined the party and the
implements he carried. It was Alex, armed with two long-handled
spades. After the first shock of surprise, I flatter myself I
was both cool and quiet. We went in single file between the rows
of headstones, and although, when I found myself last, I had an
instinctive desire to keep looking back over my shoulder, I found
that, the first uneasiness past, a cemetery at night is much the
same as any other country place, filled with vague shadows and
unexpected noises. Once, indeed--but Mr. Jamieson said it was an
owl, and I tried to believe him.
In the shadow of the Armstrong granite shaft we stopped. I think
the doctor wanted to send me back.
"It's no place for a woman," I heard him protesting angrily. But
the detective said something about witnesses, and the doctor only
came over and felt my pulse.
"Anyhow, I don't believe you're any worse off here than you would
be in that nightmare of a house," he said finally, and put his
coat on the steps of the shaft for me to sit on.
There is an air of finality about a grave: one watches the earth
thrown in, with the feeling that this is the end. Whatever has
gone before, whatever is to come in eternity, that particular
temple of the soul has been given back to the elements from which
it came.
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