e's the leather business," suggested the other.
"That's considered rather a hash."

It was a mark of singular self-control in Morris that he suffered this
to pass unchallenged, and even unresented.

"About the business in hand," said he, "once we can get him up to
Bloomsbury, there's no sort of trouble. We bury him in the cellar, which
seems made for it; and then all I have to do is to start out and find a
venal doctor."

"Why can't we leave him where he is?" asked John.

"Because we know nothing about the country," retorted Morris. "This wood
may be a regular lovers' walk. Turn your mind to the real difficulty.
How are we to get him up to Bloomsbury?"

Various schemes were mooted and rejected. The railway station at
Browndean was, of course, out of the question, for it would now be a
centre of curiosity and gossip, and (of all things) they would be least
able to despatch a dead body without remark. John feebly proposed
getting an ale-cask and sending it as beer, but the objections to this
course were so overwhelming that Morris scorned to answer. The purchase
of a packing-case seemed equally hopeless, for why should two gentlemen
without baggage of any kind require a packing-case? They would be more
likely to require clean linen.

"We are working on wrong lines," cried Morris at last. "The thing must
be gone about more carefully. Suppose now," he added excitedly, speaking
by fits and starts, as if he were thinking aloud, "suppose we rent a
cottage by the month. A householder can buy a packing-case without
remark. Then suppose we clear the people out to-day, get the
packing-case to-night, and to-morrow I hire a carriage--or a cart that
we could drive ourselves--and take the box, or whatever we get, to
Ringwood or Lyndhurst or somewhere; we could label it 'specimens,' don't
you see? Johnny, I believe I've hit the nail at last."

"Well, it sounds more feasible," admitted John.

"Of course we must take assumed names," continued Morris. "It would
never do to keep our own. What do you say to 'Masterman' itself? It
sounds quiet and dignified."

"I will _not_ take the name of Masterman," returned his brother; "you
may, if you like. I shall call myself Vance--the Great Vance; positively
the last six nights. There's some go in a name like that."

"Vance!" cried Morris. "Do you think we are playing a pantomime for our
amusement? There was never anybody named Vance who wasn't a music-hall
singer."

"That's the beauty