bedside. Then she recovered, turned, and came for towel and sponge. She was wiping the dead face carefully, and murmuring, almost whimpering, very softly: ‘Poor Mr Crich! — Poor Mr Crich! Poor Mr Crich!’

‘Is he dead?’ clanged Gerald’s sharp voice.

‘Oh yes, he’s gone,’ replied the soft, moaning voice of the nurse, as she looked up at Gerald’s face. She was young and beautiful and quivering. A strange sort of grin went over Gerald’s face, over the horror. And he walked out of the room.

He was going to tell his mother. On the landing he met his brother Basil.

‘He’s gone, Basil,’ he said, scarcely able to subdue his voice, not to let an