cult to speak of Adrian in
terms that did not tear our hearts. As a despoiler of the dead, his
offence was rank. But we had loved him; and we still loved him, and he
had expiated his crime by a year's unimaginable torture.

Often have I said that I thought I knew my Adrian, but did not. Least of
all did I know my Adrian then, as I sat paralysed by the revelation of
his fraud. Even now, as I write, looking at things more or less in
perspective, I cannot say that I know my Adrian. With all his faults,
his poses, his superficialities, his secrecies, his egotisms, I never
dreamed of him as aught but a loyal and honourable gentleman. When I
think of him, I tremble before the awful isolation of the human soul.
What does one man know of his brother? Yes; the coldest of poets was
right: "We mortal millions live alone." It is only the unconquerable
faith in Humanity by which we live that saves us from standing aghast
with conjecture before those who are so near and dear to us that we feel
them part of our very selves.

Adrian was dead and could not speak. What was it that in the first place
made him yield to temptation? What kink in the brain warped his moral
sense? God is his judge, poor boy, not I. Tom Castleton had put the
manuscript of "The Diamond Gate" into his hands. Undoubtedly he was to
arrange for its publication. Castleton's appointment to the
professorship in Australia had been a sudden matter, as I well remember,
necessitating a feverish scramble to get his affairs in order before he
sailed. Why did not Adrian in the affectionate glow of parting send the
manuscript straight off to a publisher? At first it was merely a
question of despatching a parcel and writing a covering letter. Why were
not parcel and letter sent? Merely through the sheer indolence that was
characteristic of Adrian. Then came the news of Castleton's death. From
that moment the poison of temptation must have begun to work. For years,
in his easy way, he struggled against it, until, perhaps, desperate for
Doria, he succumbed. What script, type-written or hand-written, he sent
to Wittekind, the publisher of "The Diamond Gate," I did not learn till
later. But why did he not destroy Tom Castleton's original manuscript?
That was what Jaffery could not understand. Yet any one familiar with
morbid psychology will tell you of a hundred analogical instances. Some
queer superstition, some reflex action of conscience, some dim,
relentless force compelling t