"No," said Denis. "Still, I don't know that it much matters."
How quietly he spoke! At Grasmere he had shrunk from the slightest innocent contact with the story; but here was the stain black on his own honor, and it moved him no more than did his friend's remorse. Gardiner had once said it would go hard with Denis if his idols tumbled off their pedestals. This indifference was worse than his worst fears. Would he ever find his way back? Or was there some hidden mischief, some deadly internal injury at which Gardiner could only guess? What had Dorothea done—what had she killed when she struck her blow? There grew on the young man, watching, a sense of disaster....
Denis had drifted back to the window and stood there, absently whistling his one tune:
"C'est difficile de voir voler Orville;
C'est bien plus dur de voir voler Wilbur—"
Suddenly he broke off and bent forward in quick attention.
"Anything up?" said Gardiner.
Denis wheeled and swiftly pushed him back from the window.
"The police."