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 so 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 handwriting."

John, unable to speak, stretched out his hand.

"Take it," said Warde, "to some quiet spot where you cannot be
disturbed."

John nodded.

"I have seen how it was with you," Warde continued, with deep emotion,
"and you have had my acute sympathy, the more acute, perhaps, because
long ago a friend went out of my life without a sign." Warde paused.
"Now, unless my whole experience is at fault, you hold in your hand what
you want--and what you deserve."

Warde left the library; John put the letter into his pocket. Where
should he go? One place beckoned him. Upon the tower, looking towards
the Hill, he would read the last letter of his friend.

Within half an hour he was passing through the iron gates. He had not
visited the garden since that forlorn winter's afternoon, when he came
here, alone, after bidding Desmond good-bye. He could recall the
desolation of the scene: bleak Winter dripping tears upon the tomb of
Summer. With what disgust he had perceived the decaying masses of
vegetation, the sodden turf, the soot upon the bare trunks of the trees.
He had rushed away, fancying that he heard Desmond's voice, "There is a
curse on the place."

Now, May had touched what had seemed dead and hideous, an