John Strong climbed heavily into the dog-cart that day, and sat himself down beside Judith, telling the groom they did not need him for the afternoon. Judith touched the brown mare with the whip, and they swung away down the drive and under the great oaks of the home park. John Strong’s eyes wandered almost wistfully over the rich meadow-land, the woods, the fish-ponds glimmering below the garden. Had he not held this for his son, that son whom he had hoped to see more of an aristocrat than was his father?
As they went through Saltire they heard the church-bell tolling, slowly and heavily, from the tall spire.
“Who’s dead?” John Strong asked, as he saw people moving towards the gate.
“Zeus Gildersedge,” Judith answered, glancing at him slantwise as she drove.
She saw her father’s figure stiffen unconsciously, his forehead grow full of lines under the brim of his shooting-hat. His lids were half closed over his keen, gray eyes as they drove on down the street in the full glare of the sun.
“Zeus Gildersedge is dead, is he?”
“Yes, father.”
“His daughter’s doing, I suppose?”
“No, not that. He has been killing himself for years with wine and opium.”
“So. But how do you know that?”