“Anthony,” he said at last—“why did the man do this thing?”
“He put his bed in pawn three days ago—for the little singing woman—Kate Ormsby. But she has utterly gone under—since—Paris.” He hesitated.... “I found her this morning.... He was with her.... She had taken her life with her own hand, at daybreak. You remember how she used to air her pathetic little ambitions about Fame and Name! Well, Death has fanned up her little flame of Notoriety for nine days at last. Her name will be in large letters on all the newspaper bills to-night. And”—he smiled sadly—“she will not see it!”
“But why did he do this thing, man?” The miserable voice was a dry-throated whisper. “Why did he do—this—awful—thing?”
“He must have been starving—starving—for days. He had promised to come to me if he needed help.... His pockets were empty—except for pawnbrokers’ tickets—he had even hired his clothes for to-night. I came away as—they—were—searching him—downstairs—on the supper-table.”
The other sat brooding for awhile:
“I might have helped—I did not know.”
“Ah, Paul—we could have helped—we ought to have known.”
Pangbutt buried his face in his hands:
“This is horrible,” he said.
“Paul,” said Baddlesmere—“I had better go and see what is being done.”