In a coffin previously made to order, they laid the unembalmed remains
of Judson McMasters in the family mausoleum, and the world which had
felt his masterful presence for so many years paused long enough to lay
a costly tribute on his bier and then went smoothly on its way. Not so with the faithful Biggs. Ensconced in his master's bedroom, he
nightly tossed in troubled sleep, filled with the jangling of
innumerable electric bells. And when--on the tenth night, after he had
been somewhat reassured that all was well--he was suddenly awakened by a
mad, incessant ringing from the hidden alarm, a deathly weakness
overcame him and it was some time before he was able to drag his palsied
body from the bed. With fumbling, clumsy fingers he tried to hasten, but
it was many minutes before he tottered, half dressed, out of the room. And as he did so, his heart almost stood still, then mounted to his
throat as if to choke him. "Biggs!" --a voice--McMaster's voice was calling. He staggered to the head of the wide, massive stairway and looked down. There stood the banker, pale, emaciated, but smiling. And then, as from an endless distance, came more words:

"I forgot to tell you that I had a trap-door in the end of the casket. When you didn't answer the bell, I found I could come alone." With an inarticulate cry, Biggs stretched out his trembling arms. "My Master, I am coming now." Then he swayed, stumbled, clutched feebly at the rail and plunged
headlong to the foot of the stairs, a crumpled, lifeless form.