From a recess in the wall Lupin had dragged a coffin. It was an old one
and rather rotten, so that by the aid of a small crowbar that he had
there--what use did Lupin find for a crowbar in the vaults beneath his
chapel? Was it to rip open the coffins and rob even the dead? Well,
well--by the aid of this crowbar, he soon forced open the lid of the
coffin. He stood in it then, and stamped down the remains with his feet to make
room for the murdered body. [Illustration: Mr. Lupin Crushes The Corpse To Make Room For His
Murdered Wife.] Mrs. Oakley sickened at this; she had not quite expected to see such a
horror as that. It appeared to her at the moment, to be worse than the
murder above stairs. She really felt quite faint as she saw him. When he had flattened the nearly decayed body in the coffin as much as
he could, he lifted the corpse of his victim from the floor of the
vault. It was still closely enveloped in the large sheet, although at
one part the blood had begun to make its way through all the folds upon
folds of that wrapper, and he threw it into the coffin. It more than
filled it. Poor Mrs. Oakley shut her eyes; she knew what he was going to do. She
knew it from what he had done, and she saw it in his eyes. He was of
course going to tread down the dead body of her he had murdered, in the
same way that he had already trodden down the half-decomposed one in the
coffin. Strange companionship! How little the very respectable defunct, who had
been expensively placed in one of the vaults, could have imagined that
she--it was a female--that she should be trodden down as flat as any
pancake, to make room for the Reverend Josiah Lupin's murdered wife! "To what base uses may we come as last." Mrs. Oakley heard him treading and stamping, and then she opened her
eyes, and she saw him fitting on the lid of the coffin again. He had
made it hold its double burthen. And now she had surely seen all that she came to see, and yet with a
frightful fascination she lingered as though spell-bound to the spot. She thought that she had plenty of time. Of course Lupin would put the
coffin into its recess again, and that would take him some time. It
would, with its additional weight, certainly be no easy task, but he set
about it, and it is astonishing what herculean labours people will
perform, when their necks are to answer for any delay or dereliction of
the duty. Lupin dragged the coffin to its receptacle on a low shelf, and
fairly hitched one end of it in the aperture made for its reception. By the assistance of the lever he pushed it fairly in, and then he
paused and wiped his brow. "It is done," he said. He leaned heavily against the damp wall. "It is done--it is done. This will be one of the undiscovered murders
that are done in London. I am safe now. Nobody will miss her--nobody
will look for her--nobody will dream that this vault can possibly
conceal such a crime; and now that the terror of it, and the horror of
doing it, is all over, I feel like a new man, and am much rejoiced." "Rejoiced," thought Mrs. Oakley with a shudder. "She was the torment of my life," added Lupin. "I knew no peace while
she lived. Success had no charm for me. Go where I would, think of what
I would, do what I would, I always had the dread of that woman before my
eyes; but now--now I am rid of her." He took up his lantern from the floor of the vault. Now it was time for Mrs. Oakley to fly. She turned and hastily ran up
the staircase of the vault. The idea took possession, and it was after
all only a fancy, that Lupin was pursuing her with the crow-bar in his
hand. But how it urged her on. What wings it gave her, but confused her
the while, so that instead of hurrying to the chapel door, and making a
bold effort to open it as she had meant to do, she only sought the door
in the wall, and the staircase down which she had come to the chapel,
nor did she pause until she found herself in the murder room. Then with a heart beating so wildly, that she was fain to lay her hands
upon it in the hope of stopping its maddening pulsation, she stopped to
listen. It was only fancy. It was a delusion. No Lupin was pursuing her from the
vaults. "Thank Heaven!" she said. "Thank Heaven! but oh, why am I here? Why have
I come here again, instead of making my escape by the chapel door? This
is a fatal error. Oh, Heaven save me! Is there yet time? Does he linger
yet sufficiently long in the vaults, to enable me to take refuge among
the pews?" These were questions which the stillness in the chapel below seemed to
answer in the affirmative, and once more Mrs. Oakley approached the
staircase to descend it. She got three steps down the stairs, and then
she heard a footstep below. It was too late. Lupin was coming up. Yes,
it was too late! He approached with a heavy and regular footfall. That heaviness and
regularity were sufficient evidences that he had not heard her, and had
no suspicion that she nor any one else had been a witness to his crime. So far she was comparatively safe, but the blessed chance of escape
without any meeting with him was gone. Up--up, he came! Mrs. Oakley retreated step by step as he advanced. She
passed into the chamber, which may for distinction's sake be called her
own room, and there she cast herself upon the couch, and closed her eyes
shudderingly. She had a presentiment that Lupin would come to look at her to see that
she still slumbered. She was right. He had not been in the room where the deed of blood had been committed
many minutes, when he opened the door of communication between the two
apartments, and came in not with the lantern, but with the candle he had
left burning upon the table. He did not come above three steps into the
room, and then he spoke--

"Sister Oakley it is time to pray." Mrs. Oakley moved not--spoke not. "Sister Oakley, will you be so good as to rise, and go to the corner of
the next street on a little errand for me?" How tempting this was! but Mrs. Oakley had the discretion to imagine the
wolf in the sheep's clothing now; she saw in all this only a clear mode
of ascertaining if she were awake or not, and she would not speak nor
move. This was, in truth, a wise policy upon the part of Mrs. Oakley. That it
was so, became abundantly apparent when Lupin spoke again. "All is right," he said. "The opiate has done its work bravely, I feel
easy now, and yet I don't know how I came for a moment to feel
otherwise, or to imagine for a moment there was danger from this woman. If I only had any proof that there was, I would soon put it beyond her
power to be mischievous. But, no--no, she has slept soundly and knows
nothing." It required, indeed, no ordinary nerve during this speech of Lupin's,
for Mrs. Oakley to preserve the stillness of apparent deep sleep; but we
none of us know what we can do until we are put to it; after all, what a
just punishment to Mrs. Oakley was all that she was now going through.