"Strangled, the paper says--strangled!" Dick was silent. "Strangled in his sleep! Without having time to think, to pray! Oh, Florence, what shame, what misery I have brought upon you!"
"It is an awful misfortune, Reginald, dear," said Florence, her arms round his neck, her face nestled close to his, "and it makes us all very unhappy. But there is no shame in it, dearest."
"There is, there is," he moaned. "Shame, shame--misery and disgrace!"
Dick, observing him closely, strove to arrive at some conclusion, apart from the evidence in his possession, with respect to his complicity in the terrible deed. Innocent or guilty, the shock of the news could have produced no other effect than was shown in the white face, the shaking body, the sobbing voice. There was another interval of silence, which, again, Reginald was the first to break. "Tell me everything."
"You know the worst," said Dick, "let us wait till you are stronger."
"No," cried Reginald, "I cannot wait. You must tell me everything--now, here! Wait? With those cries ringing in my ears? Don't you hear them? Hark!" They listened, and heard nothing. It was the spiritual echo of the ominous sounds that was in Reginald's ears. "Is anyone suspected? Is there any clue? Are not the people speaking about it in the streets?"
"There are all sorts of rumours," said Dick, reluctantly. "When Uncle Rob and I went into the house we found everything as the papers describe. Nothing seems to have been taken away, but of course we can't be positive on that point yet. There were no signs of a struggle."
"The paper speaks of bloody footprints," said Reginald, a white fear in his eyes.
"There are signs of them," said Dick, with a guilty tremor.
"And no blood on my--my father's body, nor in the bed?"