“Sile Gregory,” the young man answered. “He died this mornin’, an’ Mr. Johnson took him to th’ parlors to fix ’im up, an’ sent me an’ Joe Williams out with him this evenin’. I was just drivin’ up to th’ house, an’ Joe hopped out to give me a lift with th’ casket, an’ old Silas got up an’ walked away! An’ Mr. Johnson embalmed ’im this mornin’, I tell you!”

“Norn, d’un chou-fleur!” de Grandin shot back. “And where did this so remarkable demonstration take place, mon vieux? Also, what of the excellent Williams, your partner?”

“I don’t know, an’ I don’t care,” the other replied. “When a dead corpse I saw embalmed this mornin’ gets outa its casket an’ walks, I ain’t gonna wait for nobody. Jump up here, if you want to go with me; I ain’t gonna stay here no longer!”

“Bien,” de Grandin acquiesced. “Go your way, my excellent one. Should we encounter your truant corpse, we will direct him to his waiting bière.”

The young man waited for no second invitation, but started his car down the road at a speed which would bring him into certain trouble if observed by a state trooper.

“Now, what the devil do you make of that?” I asked. “I know Johnson, the funeral director, well, and I always thought he had a pretty levelheaded crowd of boys about his place, but if that lad hasn’t been drinking some powerful liquor, I’ll be—”

“Not necessarily, my friend,” de Grandin interrupted. “I think it not at all impossible that he tells but the sober truth. It may well be that the dead do walk this road tonight.”

I shivered with something other than the night’s chill as he made the matter-of-fact assertion but forbore pressing him for an explanation. There are times when ignorance is a happier portion than knowledge.

We had marched perhaps another quarter-mile in silence when de Grandin suddenly plucked my sleeve. “Have you noticed nothing, my friend?” he asked.

“What d’ye mean?” I demanded sharply, for my nerves were worn tender by the night’s events.

“I am not certain, but it seems to me we are followed.”

“Followed? Nonsense! Who would be following us?” I returned, unconsciously stressing the personal pronoun, for I had almost said, “What would follow us,” and the implication raised by the impersonal form sent tiny shivers racing along my back and neck.

De Grandin cast me a quick, appraising glance, and I saw the ends of his spiked mustache lift suddenly as his lips framed a sardonic smile, but instead of answering he swung round on his heel and faced the shadows behind us.

“Holà, Monsieur le Cadavre!” he called sharply. “Here we are, and—sang du diable!—here we shall stand.”

I looked at him in open-mouthed amazement, but his gaze was turned steadfastly on something half seen in the mist which lay along the road.