Two or three minutes passed, during which I heard him, once or twice, moving softly about the room and judged that he was examining the surroundings amidst which his brother had passed the last few weeks of his life. Presently he came out, closing the door noiselessly behind him, and joined me opposite the window. I looked a little nervously into the stern, grief-stricken face, and as he did not speak, I said, lamely enough:
“This is a grievous and terrible thing, Mr. Monkhouse.” He shook his head gravely. “Grievous indeed; and the more so if one suspects, as I do, that it need not have happened. However, he is gone and recriminations will not bring him back.”
“No,” I agreed, profoundly relieved and a little surprised at his tone; “whatever we may feel or think, reproaches and bitter wor
