"Yes, for certain," Joseph answered. "Mr. Herbert, as he was coming downstairs to go out, stopped to speak to me, sir, and he was fastening his cloak on then."
Minny ran up, bursting with grief and terror as she seized upon Mr. Dare. "Papa! papa! is it true?" she sobbed.
"Is what true, child?"
"That it was Herbert? They are saying so."
"Hush!" said Mr. Dare. Carrying a candle, he went up to Herbert's room, his heart aching. That Herbert could sleep through the noise was surprising; and yet, not much so. His room was more remote from the house than were the other rooms, and looked towards the back. But, had he slept through it? When Mr. Dare went in, he was sitting up in bed, awaking, or pretending to awake, from sleep. The window, thrown wide open, may have contributed to deaden any sound in the house. "Can you sleep through this, Herbert?" cried Mr. Dare.
Herbert stared, and rubbed his eyes, and stared again, as one bewildered. "Is that you, father?" he presently cried. "What is it?"
"Herbert," said his father, in low tones of pain, of dread; "what have you been doing to your brother?"
Herbert, as if not understanding the drift of the question, stared more than ever. "I have done nothing to him," he presently said. "Do you mean Anthony?"
"Anthony is lying on the dining-room floor killed—murdered. Herbert, who did it?"
Herbert Dare sat motionless in bed, looking utterly lost. That he could not understand, or was affecting not to understand, was evident. "Anthony is—what do you say, sir?"