dling
wood was leaping and blazing. I could not make out at first what he was
doing. He seemed to be stooping over the fire, moving something about.
Then I saw. He was drying his clothes--the suit he had worn that day. They
must have been very wet, for the steam was rising from them.

"I must have made a noise which startled him, for I saw him turn quickly
and stare at the closed door, then walk towards it. I went away as quickly
and noiselessly as I could, and as I turned the corner of the passage, out
of sight, his door opened, and then closed again. He had looked out and,
seeing nobody, gone back into his room.

"I went downstairs to make the coffee and wait for Mr. Turold. I had to
wait some time. When I did hear the sound of his key in the door, I went
up the hall with a cup of coffee in my hand. Mr. Turold seemed surprised
to see me. He looked at me in a questioning sort of way as he took the
coffee, and stood there sipping it. As he handed me back the cup he told
me in a low voice that his brother was dead. I said that was why I had
waited up--because I had heard the knock and the dreadful news. Mr.
Turold, in the same low voice, then said he was very much afraid his
brother had taken his own life.

"He then went upstairs. I again retired shortly afterwards, but I could
not sleep. I was too upset--too nervous. I could not get Mr. Robert
Turold's suicide out of my head. It seemed such a dreadful thing for a
wealthy man to do--so common and vulgar! Suicide sticks to a family so--it
is never really forgotten. It is much easier to live down an embezzlement
or misappropriation of trust funds. The thought of it put the other
thing--the fire and young Mr. Turold and his wet clothes--out of my head
completely, for the time.

"As I was lying there tossing and thinking I heard a light footstep pass
my door. I slipped out of bed, and opening the door a little, looked out.
I saw Mr. Turold, fully dressed, a light in his hand, turning down the
passage which led to his son's room. Then I heard the sound of a creaking
door, the murmur of a low conversation, cut short by the shutting of the
door. I stood there for a few minutes, and then went back to my bed and
fell asleep.

"The next day it all came back to me. I had gone into Charles Turold's
room for some reason when he was out, and there, on the hearth, I could
see the remains of the fire he had lit overnight to dry his clothes. He
had made some clumsy man-like attempt