Bede gravely nodded. His breath was coming and going faster than is consistent with inward calmness.
"My God!" cried Mr. Greatorex, from between his quivering lips, as he sank into a chair, and covered his face with his hands. But the sacred word was not spoken in irreverence; no, nor in surprise; rather, as it seemed, in the light of an appealing prayer.
"And what could have induced it?" came the question presently, as he let his hands fall.
"I had better tell you the whole from the beginning," said Bede, "you will then----"
"Tell it, of course," interrupted Mr. Greatorex. "Begin at the beginning."
Bede stood up, facing the fire; his elbow on the mantelpiece, his back partially turned to his father, while he told it: he did not care to watch the anguish and horror of the usually placid face. He concealed nothing: relating how he had reached the City and held an interview with his cousin; how he had left him after the lapse of an hour, promising to be with him in the morning before starting for town; and how he had been aroused from his bed by the tidings that John was dead. He described the state of the room when found; the pistol lying underneath the hand; the note on the table. As well as Bede Greatorex could repeat the details, as testified to before the coroner--and we may be very sure they were implanted with painful exactitude on his memory--he gave them all faithfully.
"It might have been an accident," urged Mr. Greatorex, in an imploring kind of tone, as if he wanted to be assured that it was.
Bede did not answer.
"I forgot the writing, Bede; I forgot the writing," said Mr. Greatorex, with a groan.
"Whatever it might be, whether accident or self-intended, it is an awful shame to bury him as they are going to do," burst forth Bede, in a sudden access of anger.