le's silent sympathy John responded but
churlishly. His friend had departed without a word, without a sign;
that ate into John's heart and consumed it. For the first time since
he had been confirmed, he refused to receive the Sacrament. He went to
church as a matter of form; but he dared not approach the altar in his
present rebellious mood.

Again and again he accused himself of having yielded to a craven fear
of offending Desmond by speech too plain. Always he had been so
terribly afraid of losing his friend; and now he had lost him indeed.
This poignancy of grief may be accounted for in part by the previous
long-continued strain of overwork. And it is ever the habit of those
who do much to think that they might have done more.

At the beginning of May, John came back to the Hill, for his last term.
Out of the future rose the "dreaming spires" of Oxford; beyond them,
vague and shadowy, the great Clock-tower of Westminster, keeping watch
and ward over the destinies of our Empire.

In a long letter from Charles Desmond, the Minister had spoken of the
secretaryship to be kept warm for him, of the pleasure and solace the
writer would take in seeing his son's best friend in the place where
that son might have stood.

His best friend? Was that true?

The question tormented John. Because Caesar had been so much to him,
he desired, more passionately than he had desired anything in his life,
the assurance that he had been something--not everything, only
something--to Caesar.

One day, about the middle of the month, John had been playing cricket,
the game of all games which brought Caesar most vividly to his mind.
Then, just before six Bill, he strolled up the Hill and into the
Vaughan Library, where go many relics dear to Harrovians are enshrined.
Sitting in the splendid window which faces distant Hampstead, John told
himself that he must put aside the miseries and perplexities of the
past month. Had he been loyal to his friend's memory? Would not a
more ardent faith have burned away doubt?

John gazed across the familiar fields to the huge city on the horizon.
Soon night would fall, darkness would encompass all things. And then,
out of the mirk, would shine the lamps of London.

Warde's voice put his thoughts to instant flight. Some intuition told
John that something had happened. Warde said quietly--

"A letter has come for you in Harry Desmond's hand-writing."

John, unable to speak, stretched out