As I sat in front of the ebony coffin surrounded with flowers with my face in my hands, people were flocking in. There were former clients, friends, acquaintances and even former Scotland Yard officials. Most of those people who was not able to make his acquaintance while he was still alive went there out of curiosity or sympathy.

Although I was unable to see anything besides my hand and, occasionally, the floor, I was aware that two people sat beside me. As what I could note from their weight, one was older than the other. These men are probably father and son.

"You know, lad," the elderly man beside me said. "I owe the deceased my life, my fortune and the death of the hound." He said the latter with a chuckle.

I lifted my head up and tried to catch a glimpse of the man whom I suspect was Sir Henry Baskerville. I unintentionally caught his eye, but I did not let go of his gaze. As I opened my mouth to utter some words, his plain gaze was mixed with an expression of astonishment. At first, I could not tell why he seemed surprised upon seeing me. After glaring at me for some time, he turned to my Father's photograph on the coffin; I finally realized what caused his amazement.

I stood up and took my hat. "I must be going," was all I can say.

I know, I was not supposed to show myself in my Father's funeral, but, I can not help it.

I was already walking towards the exit when I remembered to put my hat on. I pulled it lower, if only it could cover my whole face. Everyone who saw my face followed me with their gaze then glared at that photograph of my Father.