"Good God!" said Henry, "it is the same."
Mr. Marchdale dropped the piece of cloth and trembled.
"This fact shakes even your scepticism," said Henry.
"I know not what to make of it."
"I can tell you something which bears upon it. I do not know if you are sufficiently aware of my family history to know that this one of my ancestors, I wish I could say worthy ancestors, committed suicide, and was buried in his clothes."
"You—you are sure of that?"
"Quite sure."
"I am more and more bewildered as each moment some strange corroborative fact of that dreadful supposition we so much shrink from seems to come to light and to force itself upon our attention."
There was a silence of a few moments duration, and Henry had turned towards Mr. Marchdale to say something, when the cautious tread of a footstep was heard in the garden, immediately beneath that balcony.
A sickening sensation came over Henry, and he was compelled to lean against the wall for support, as in scarcely articulate accents he said—