Dick pushed back his chair abruptly and rose. He turned his back on the squire while he poked the blazing logs with his foot. Then: "Yes, you've a perfect right to know," he said, speaking jerkily, his head bent. "And of course I always meant to tell you. It won't appeal to you in the least. But Juliet understands--at least in part. He was responsible for--my boy's death. That's why I made him go." It was the first time that he had voluntarily spoken of Robin since the day that he and Juliet had followed him to his grave. He brought out the words now with tremendous effort, and having spoken he ceased to kick at the fire and became absolutely still. The squire sat at the table, staring at him. For some seconds the silence continued, then irritably he broke it. "Well? Go on, man! That isn't the whole of the story. What do you mean by--responsible? He didn't shove him over the cliff, I suppose?" "No," Dick said. "He didn't do that. I almost wish he had. It would have been somehow--more endurable." Again he became silent, and suddenly to the squire sitting frowning at the table there came a flash of intuition that told him he could not continue. He got up sharply, went to Dick, still frowning, and laid an impulsive arm across his shoulders. "I'm sorry, my lad," he said. Dick made a slight movement as if the caress were not wholly welcome, but after a moment he reached up and grasped the squire's hand. "It hit me pretty hard," he said in a low voice, not lifting his hand. "Juliet just made it bearable. I shall get over it, of course. But--I never want to see Jack again." Again for a space he stopped, then with a sudden fierce impatience jerked on. "You may remember saying to me once--no; a hundred times over--that I should never get anywhere so long as I kept my boy with me--never find success--or happiness--never marry--all that sort of rot. It was rot. I always knew it was. I've proved it. She would have come to me in any case. And as for success--it doesn't depend on things of that sort. I've proved that too. But he--Jack--got hold of the same infernal parrot-cry. Oh, I'm sorry, sir," he glanced upwards for a second with working lips. "I can't dress this up in polite language. Jack said to my boy Robin what you had said to me. And he--believed it--and so--made an end." He drew his breath hard between his teeth and straightened himself, putting Fielding's arm quietly from his. "Good God!" said Fielding. "But the boy was mad! He never was normal. You can't say--" "Oh, no, sir." With grim bitterness Dick interrupted. "He just took the shortest way out, that's all. He wasn't mad." "Committed suicide!" ejaculated the squire. Dick's hands were clenched. "Do you call it that," he said, "when a man lays down his life for his friends?" He turned away with the words as if he could endure no more, and walked to the end of the room.