Mrs. Fletcher sat down beside him, and motioned to her husband to go. He went out silently, leaving them in the dark room. "Oh, Mrs. Fletcher--my dear Dad! My dear Dad!" Mrs. Fletcher put her hand on the bowed head and stroked his hair. There was nothing to say; she sat there, simply, her sympathy tending him, until the storm passed. II John never forgot the details of those three days that followed. First there was the anxiety of his father's fate. That he was dead he knew beyond hope, but there was a lack of details, of the manner and the circumstances. The letter from Messrs. Agnew & Cust merely quoted the cable they had received stating the death of his father at Amasia defending some Armenians who had taken refuge in his house during a massacre. That was all, and three days elapsed before they wrote again, enclosing another cable which said that his father had been shot through the head, had died instantaneously, while fighting his way out, with his servants, to effect a juncture with a relief detachment from the American hospital at Marsovan, where his body had been conveyed and buried. John wondered whether his father lay in that cemetery where, on a memorable day he had seen him crying over the grave of his mother. During those days of waiting, John realised, more deeply then before, the meaning of friendship. Vernley and Marsh were always with him. They said little, for what could they say? They knew that John had rather they did not touch upon the knowledge so heavy on their hearts, and sometimes their watchfulness, their eagerness to serve him brought him to a point of open breakdown. For his own sake John went on with his form work. It was a slight distraction from the anxiety of the days that must pass before a letter could come from Asia Minor. One night, about a week after the receipt of the news, Vernley and Marsh sat in their study doing their preparation. John had been sent for by Mr. Fletcher, and had been absent some time. Vernley looked at his watch. "Shall I get supper?" he asked--"Are you finishing?" "Yes," replied Marsh, closing his Euripides. "I say, what a miserable devil old Euripides was; he's always talking about death. A good job some of his plays were burnt at Alexandria---there were ninety of 'em. I hate thinking about death." "And just now--with poor old Scissors," added Vernley. "By the way, Bobbie," said Marsh, flinging one leg over the arm of his chair, "what's Scissors going to do? I don't like asking him." "Do--how do you mean?" "His future--you see there's the money question. I don't know much about his affairs--but Cambridge means money--and I don't know whether his governor had any--he seemed too jolly for money-making." "Oh, he'll have left some--and there's the Exhibition," said Vernley. Money matters were always easily dismissed in his presence. "He'll be all right, I expect." "Well--we've got to see." "But it's no business of ours." "It is," retorted Marsh.