"For a moment or two you must listen to me," he said, and there was a harsh commanding ring in his voice. "Each of you is old enough to be my father in years; I am older than all of you combined in reality. At least, that is how I feel just now. You, Mr. Trayne, have talked about forgetfulness; in time, perhaps, I shall forget. But there’s something inside me at the present moment which is numbing me. I can’t feel, I can’t think, I can’t hate—I’m simply apathetic. I don’t want to have anything to do with men; I want to get right away from them. And I’m going—I’m going; but I’m not going alone." He swung round and faced the Soldier. "Do you know why I’ve come here to-night, General?" The Soldier looked at him quietly. "To see Beryl? Because she’d like to see you, Hugh." But Hugh Dawnay shook his head. "No, not to see Beryl. I’m not fit to see her—yet. Perhaps in a year or two—if she isn’t—married by then. No, it’s not to see any human being; not even her. It’s to get Tommy; and take him with me out into the big spaces where, perhaps, in time one may see things differently." Unconscious of the effect of his words on his listeners, he had turned and was staring into the soft summer night. "All the time that I’ve been in prison"—and his voice had lost its harshness—"I’ve thought, of that little chap. I’ve sat on my stool in the cell, and I’ve felt his cold, wet muzzle thrust into my hand: I’ve seen his eyes—those great brown eyes—staring up at me, asking for a hunt. But there’s no hunting in prison—no rabbits: and I used to promise him that when I came out we’d go off together, just he and I—on to the moors somewhere—and be alone. He wouldn’t mind even if I’d done it—even if I had stolen the money. That’s the wonder of a dog: where he’s so infinitely better than a man." The boy gave a little sigh, and for the first time a genuine smile flickered round his lips. "I’ve been all round the house, whistling and looking for him—but I expect he’s in the drawing-room somewhere. With Beryl, perhaps. I wonder, General, if you’d get him for me?" He glanced at the Soldier, and slowly his eyes dilated, as he saw the look on the older man’s face. He glanced at the Bishop, who was staring at the cloth; he glanced at the Actor, who was staring at the Bishop, and suddenly he gave a little choking cry. "My God!" he muttered, brokenly, "don’t tell me that! Don’t say that Tommy is—dead!" It was the Soldier who answered, and his voice was suspiciously gruff. "The little fellow was mauled in a trap this morning, old chap: and we had—to put him out of the way." "Mauled in a trap?" The boy’s voice was dead. "Tommy mauled in a trap? Who laid the trap?" And it was the Actor who sat up, with a sudden light in his eyes, and supplied the information. "Young Parker, who is farming the bit of ground next to here," he said, with almost unnecessary distinctness. "You can see his house through the trees."