Mrs. Agar seemed only half to understand. She stared at her son, swaying backwards and forwards in imbecile misery. “Oh dear! oh dear!” she whispered, “what have we done to deserve this?” After a few seconds she repeated the words. “What have we done to deserve this? What have we done ...” Her voice died away into a whisper, and when that became inaudible her lips went on moving, still framing the same words over and over again. In this manner they waited, with that dull senselessness to the flight of time which follows on a great shock. They all heard the clatter of horses' feet on the gravel of the avenue, and probably they all divined that Mark Ruthine had sent for medical help. To Dora the sound brought a sudden boundless sense of relief. Amidst this mental confusion it came as a practical common-sense proof that the tension of the last year was over. The burden of her own life was by it lifted from her shoulders; for Jem was here, and nothing could matter very much now. Presently Ruthine came into the room. As he went towards Arthur he glanced at Dora and then at Mrs. Agar, but the young fellow was evidently his first care. While he was kneeling by the low chair examining Arthur's eyes and face, Mrs. Agar suddenly rose and crossed the room. “Is he dead?” she said abruptly. “Who?” inquired Mark Ruthine, without looking round. “Seymour Michael.” “Yes.” “Quite?” “Yes.” “Then Arthur killed him?” “Yes.” All this while Arthur was lying back in the chair, white and lifeless. His eyes were open, he breathed regularly, but he heard nothing that was said, nor saw anything before his eyes. “Then,” said Mrs. Agar, “that was a murder?” She was looking out of the window, towards the stone terrace, already conscious that the scene that she had witnessed there would never be effaced from her memory while she had life. After a little pause Mark Ruthine spoke. “No,” he answered, “it was not that. Your son was not responsible for his actions when he did it. I think I can prove that. I do not yet know what it was. It was very singular. I think it was some sort of mental aberration--temporary, I hope, and think. We will see when he recovers himself--when the circulation is restored.” While he spoke he continued to examine his patient. He spoke in his natural tone, without attempting to lower his voice, for he knew that Arthur Agar had no comprehension of things terrestrial at that time. “It was not,” he went on, “the action of a sane man. Besides, he could not have done it. In his right mind he could not have killed Seymour Michael, who was a strong man. As it is, I think that there was some sort of paralysis in Seymour Michael--a paralysis of fear. He seemed too frightened to attempt to defend himself. Besides, why should your son do it?” “He was born hating him.”