“Well,” I exploded, “if a man mayn’t kill, he may persuade to suicide, it seems.”
He answered good-humouredly, “All right; but it wasn’t suicide.”
Then he resumed his seat by me, and relighted his pipe. I sat stolidly, with an indefinable feeling of grievance, and said nothing. But the silence soon grew unbearable.
“Kelvin,” I said, suddenly and viciously; “what the deuce do you mean?”
“You wouldn’t believe,” he answered, at once and cheerily, “even if I told you.”
“Told me what?”
“Well, this. There was the soul of little Patsy that went up in the smoke.”
“The village child you are so attached to?”
“Yes; and who has lain dying these weeks past.”
“Why should it come to you?”