His two hearers uttered a simultaneous exclamation, and Mr. Upton stood glancing piteously from one to the other, as though his lad’s death-warrant were written in their faces. Eugene Thrush, however, looked so genuinely distressed that the less legible handwriting on the face of Mullins also attracted less attention.
“Had he anything to shoot himself with?” inquired Thrush, in a curiously gentle voice.
Mr. Upton nodded violently as he moistened his lips.
“He had, after all!” he croaked. “Little as I dreamt it yesterday, my unhappy boy, who had never to my knowledge pulled a trigger in his life before, was going about London with a loaded revolver in his pocket!”
“Had he brought it from school?” asked Thrush, with a covert frown at the transfigured Mullins.
Mr. Upton repeated what he had heard through the young Westminsters, with their father’s opinion of pawnbrokers’ shops as resorts for young schoolboys, of young schoolboys who frequented them, and of parents and guardians who gave them the chance. How the two gentlemen had parted without fisticuffs became the latest mystery to Eugene Thrush, whose only comment was that it behoved him all the more to do something to redeem the capital in the other’s eyes.
“Now we know why my poor wife heard a shot!” was the only rejoinder, in a voice not too broken to make Mullins prick up his ears; it was the first he had heard about the dream.
“I wouldn’t say that, Mr. Upton. We know no more than we knew before. Yet I will own now,” exclaimed Thrush, catching Mullins’s bright eye, “that the coincidence will be tremendous if there’s nothing in it!”
But only half the coincidence was present in the father’s mind; no thought of the murder had yet entered it in connection with his boy; and to hear so emphatic an echo to his foreboding was more than his fretted nerves could stand. In the same breath he pounced on Thrush for a pessimist—apologised—and humbly entreated him to take a more hopeful view.
“There may have been an accident, Thrush, but not necessarily a fatal one!”