“Good! John, tell Nedda that, and stay with her a bit. I want to talk to Derek. We'll go in the other way.” He put his hand under the boy's arm and turned him down into the side street. When they reached the gloomy little bedroom Felix pointed to the telegram.
“From me. I suppose the news of his death stopped you?”
“Yes.” Derek opened the telegram, dropped it, and sat down beside his valise on the shiny sofa. He looked positively haggard.
Taking his stand against the chest of drawers, Felix said quietly:
“I'm going to have it out with you, Derek. Do you understand what all this means to Nedda? Do you realize how utterly unhappy you're making her? I don't suppose you're happy yourself—”
The boy's whole figure writhed.
“Happy! When you've killed some one you don't think much of happiness—your own or any one's!”
Startled in his turn, Felix said sharply:
“Don't talk like that. It's monomania.”
Derek laughed. “Bob Tryst's dead—through me! I can't get out of that.”