"I couldn't stop the boys coming into the street," she said, "and Reginald heard them. Florence ran down to me all in a flutter, and asked if I didn't hear them calling out something about a murder in Catchpole Square, and what was it? Then she caught sight of the paper that I was trying to hide, and when she looked at it she was frightened out of her life. We did all we could to keep it from Reginald, but he couldn't help seeing from our faces that there was something serious the matter. At last there was nothing for it but to tell him, and we did it as gently as we could. But the shock was dreadful; he sobbed like a little child. Then he cried that he must go to the house, and we had almost to use force to prevent him leaving his bed. Florence threw her arms round him, and begged and implored so that he had to give in. We tried to comfort him by saying that it mightn't be true, that it might be another man who was murdered, and that you and Uncle Rob had gone to see about it. I'm afraid to ask you if it's true, Dick." "It is too true," he replied, and rapidly related all that had passed since he and Uncle Rob had left her. She listened horror-struck, and when he finished could hardly find voice to ask who he thought was the murderer. "I don't know what to think," he said. "There can be only one man," she said, but he stopped her from proceeding. "Don't let's talk about it just now, aunt. There are a dozen men who would rather see Samuel Boyd dead than alive. He had plenty of enemies, and he deserved to have. If Reginald knew I was here he would want to see me." "He made me promise the moment either of you came back to bring you up to him." "We'll go at once. There must be no further concealment." Reginald was sitting up in bed, very white and haggard. "I thought I heard voices," he said when they entered the room. "Have you been there?" "Yes, I have been there," said Dick. "Did you see him? Speak--speak!" "I saw him." "You saw him! Well--well?" "He is dead." "My God! My God! My father!--Dead! And he died at enmity with me!" groaned Reginald, sinking down in bed, and turning his face to the wall. They did not disturb him--did not dare to speak. "Is it certain that he was murdered," he said presently in a broken voice, "that he did not die a natural death?" "I fear there is no doubt." "Strangled, the paper says--strangled!" Dick was silent. "Strangled in his sleep! Without having time to think, to pray! Oh, Florence, what shame, what misery I have brought upon you!" "It is an awful misfortune, Reginald, dear," said Florence, her arms round his neck, her face nestled close to his, "and it makes us all very unhappy. But there is no shame in it, dearest." "There is, there is," he moaned. "Shame, shame--misery and disgrace!"