“Oh!” A light flashed into Martin's face. “So he has come back, has he? Back home? What made him change toward this place? Is he here to stay?” “No, Martin--” “Then if he hasn't come to his senses, what is he doing here--here in my house, the home he hates--” “He doesn't hate it now,” Rose replied, struggling for words that she might express herself and end this cruel conversation, but all she could do was to point nervously toward the spare room. “What is he doing in there? It's the one spot that Rose can call her own, poor child.” “He's on the bed, Martin--” “What's the matter with the davenport he's always slept on? Is he sick? What in heaven's name is going on in this house?” As Martin started toward the bedroom, his wife opened her lips to tell him the truth but the words refused to come; at the same instant it struck her that not to speak was brutal, yet just. She would let Martin go to this bed with words of anger on his lips, with feelings of unkindness in his heart. She would do this. Savage? Yes, but why not? There seemed to be something fair about it. Then her heart-strings pulled more strongly than ever. No; it was too hard. She must stop him, tell him, prepare him. But before the words came, he was out of the room and when she spoke he did not hear her because of the rain. He saw the vague lines of the boy's body, hidden by the sheet, and thought quickly, “Bill's old ostrich-like trick,” and while at the same instant something told him that a terrible thing had happened, the idea did not register completely until he had his hand on the linen. Then, with a short yank, he pulled away the cover and saw the boy's head. Dark as it was, it was enough to show him the truth. With a quick move he covered him again. There was a smeary wetness on his fingers, which he wiped away on the side of his trousers. They were drenched with rain, but he distinguished the sticky feel of blood leaving his hand as he rubbed it nervously.