lk still
seemed to buzz about him; his temples throbbed; his thoughts wandered
far and wide. Driven to bed long before his accustomed hour, he heard
raucous voices rending the night, bellowing in hideous antiphony from
this side of the street and the other, as the vendors of a halfpenny
paper made the most of what Providence had sent them.

The first thing after breakfast next morning, he posted a line to Hugh
Carnaby. 'Is there any way in which I can be of use to you? If you
think not, I shall be off tomorrow to Greystone for a few days. I feel
as if we were all being swept into a ghastly whirlpool which roars over
the bottomless pit. Of course, I will stay if I can do anything, no
matter what. Otherwise, address for a week to Basil Morton's.'

This he dropped into the nearest pillar-box, and, as the sun was
endeavouring to shine, he walked the length of the street, a pretence
of exercise. On his way back he was preceded by a telegraph boy, who
stopped at Buncombe's front door, and awoke the echoes with a twofold
double knock. Before the servant could open, Harvey was on the steps.

'What name?'

'Rolfe.'

'For me, then.'

He tore open the envelope.

'Could you come at once? Something has happened.--Abbott.'

The boy wished to know if there would be a reply. Harvey shook his
head, and stepped into the hall, where he stood reflecting. What could
have happened that Edgar Abbott should summon him? Had his wife run
away?-- Ah, to be sure, it must have something to do with Wager's
children--an accident, a death. But why send for _him_?

He made a little change in his dress, and drove forthwith to Kilburn.
As his cab stopped, he saw that all the blinds in the front of the
Abbotts' house were drawn down. Death, then, obviously. It was with a
painful shaking of the nerves that he knocked for admission.

'Mr. Abbott----?'

The servant girl, who had a long-drawn face, said nothing, but left him
where he stood, returning in a moment with a mumbled 'Will you please
to come in, sir?' He followed her to the room in which he had talked
with Mrs. Abbott two days ago; and she it was who again received him.
Her back to the light, she stood motionless.

'Your husband has telegraphed for me----'

A voice that struggled with a sob made thick reply----

'No--I--he is dead!'

The accent of that last monosyllable was heart-piercing. It seemed to
Harvey as though the word were new-minted, so full it sounded of
dreadful mean