"I'm afraid so, miss. Mr. Felix, since he came out on his ticket-of-leave"--Denzil winced--"he's been trying to make a little money by--by writing of books, sir, what I can make of it in the account here." He adjusted his spectacles with what seemed like maddening slowness to the two watching. "He's lodged, sir, in Poplar, in Bow, in the Borough, and now at last in Deptford--No. 6, Hawkins Row. He was there a matter of ten days, and on Monday last he paid his rent. The woman thinks he pawned an overcoat and one or two things to pay it. He also, sir--he also bought some laudanum." "Denzil!" cried Miss Rawson, appealing. "I told you your last letter was too hard!" "Too hard!" Denzil turned eyes of dignified reproach upon his aunt. "You say, _too hard_! After what he has called upon me to endure! I have many things with which to reproach myself, but being hard upon Felix is not one of them." Gregory had been fumbling with his papers, and now at last succeeded in extracting and bringing out the one he sought. "They have sent down an officer from Scotland Yard, sir," he said, "but me knowing the family, if I may venture to say so, I thought you would maybe be better pleased if I came along myself with the noos, sir. There's no such thing as breaking noos, sir, I know that. But a stroke comes easier sometimes if brought by one that has the welfare of the family at heart." Denzil did not hear the tremulous speech. He had snatched the letter--the terrible letter--which Felix had left upon the table in his room. "Dear Pharisee." The epithet thundered at him. He read the reckless, unjust words over and over. He read it once--twice--then he rose, held it out to Miss Rawson, and, slowly turning, sank in his chair with his face hidden upon his arms. "Oh, heavens!" he cried aloud, "I have not--no, I have not deserved this!" It was a characteristic cry. What had he done, he the blameless, the well-conducted; he who had endured at his stepmother's hand treatment that might well have soured a sweeter nature than his own; he who knew, concerning that same stepmother, things that might have wrecked her chance of inheriting anything, had he told his father of them! He had behaved, so it seemed to him, with a wonderful Christian fortitude and forbearance. And this horrible suicide, this outrageous indictment, was his reward. The constable was speaking. "He seems to have burnt all his papers, sir, in the grate first. The grate was full of burnt paper and the hearth, too. The officer thinks he burnt the manuscript of a book, sir. The empty bottles of laudanum, and the empty mug out of which he drank it, sir, were on the table. There was not a morsel of food, nor any clothes at all in the room, nor any luggage." Vanston made an effort, and managed to say, "I told the police-court missionary to look after him. I put money in his hands for him."