He stopped suddenly as his eyes fell upon the divan where Fraser-Freer lay. In an instant he was at the dead man’s side.
“Stephen!” he cried in anguish.
“Who are you?” demanded the inspector—rather rudely, I thought.
“It’s the captain’s brother, sir,” put in Walters. “Lieutenant Norman Fraser-Freer, of the Royal Fusiliers.”
There fell a silence.
“A great calamity, sir—” began Walters to the boy.
I have rarely seen any one so overcome as young Fraser-Freer. Watching him, it seemed to me that the affection existing between him and the man on the divan must have been a beautiful thing. He turned away from his brother at last, and Walters sought to give him some idea of what had happened.
“You will pardon me, gentlemen,” said the lieutenant. “This has been a terrible shock! I didn’t dream, of course—I just dropped in for a word with—with him. And now—”
We said nothing. We let him apologize, as a true Englishman must, for his public display of emotion.
“I’m sorry,” Bray remarked in a moment, his eyes still shifting about the room—“especially as England may soon have great need of men like the captain. Now, gentlemen, I want to say this: I am the Chief of the Special Branch at the Yard. This is no ordinary murder. For reasons I can not disclose—and, I may add, for the best interests of the empire—news of the captain’s tragic death must be kept for the present out of the newspapers. I mean, of course, the manner of his going. A mere death notice, you understand—the inference being that it was a natural taking off.”