* * * * *
The man reading, paused.
'He had suffered much more than I,' he thought—'but his wife had helped him—stood by him—'
And he passed on to the next page—to the clause in Haydon's will which runs—'My dearest wife, Mary Haydon, has been a good, dear, and affectionate wife to me—a heroine in adversity and an angel in peace.'
'And he repaid her by blowing his brains out,' thought Fenwick, contemptuously. 'But he was mad—of course he was mad. We are all mad—when it comes to this.'
And he turned back, as though in fascination, to the page before, to the last entry in Haydon's Journal.
'21st.—Slept horribly. Prayed in sorrow and got up in agitation. '22d.—God forgive me. Amen.'
'Amen!' repeated Fenwick, aloud, as he dropped the book. The word echoed in the empty room. He covered his eyes with his right hand, leaning his arm on the table.
The other hand, as it fell beside him, came in contact with the parcel which was propped against the table. His touch told him that it contained a picture—an unframed canvas. A vague curiosity awoke in him. He took it up, peered at the address, then began to finger with and unwrap it.
Suddenly—he bent over it. What was it!