not have been there at all, since, she was here, horrified, full of pity, helping, when he had killed. Oh, God! what had he done? He had killed a man in some horrible mistake. Perhaps it was not Meredith at all; if it was, it was his friend, Gussy’s betrothed, the friend of the family. He had killed him--for what, for what? For nothing. His rage had died off like fever. He was quite calm now, like one fallen from some horrible height, shaking with the shock, and as miserable as if all the miseries of earth had gathered on his head. It did not seem to him unnatural that he should stand there among the crowd, struggling to get a glimpse of what was going on in his own home, within his mother’s open door. He did not, however, follow the others when Janet drove them away. Though it had filled him with consternation to see her there, and the dull, dreadful thought that there had been no provocation, nothing but delusion and mistake--it was yet with a kind of stupid fury and repugnance that he saw her taking upon her to send away the crowd, to act as if the house was hers. He hung behind in the dark, and seized her arm with a wild feeling that he would like to crush her too to make her feel, though apparently she had done no wrong. But these gave way to the other anxiety, the deeper interest. After all there was but one thing that it was, or would be, now or ever, of the slightest importance to know--was he dead? Janet gave no direct answer to his question. She said quickly, “Come in now, take your place, and nobody will ever suspect. It is all in your own hands.” He did not understand what she meant. Suspect? What did it matter? There was only one thing of consequence--was he dead? “No,” said Janet. “No, no, no; do you understand! Go in, and say you were in the garden. Oh, do you hear me? The men are coming round again. Come in, and look as if--as if you were yourself.” As if he were himself! He did not understand. He was not himself. He did not know who he was. He had nothing to do in that house. He stood and stared blankly at her, not knowing what she meant. But Janet was as keen as he was dull. A passion of energy, of life, and purpose was in her. His hand had dropped from her arm, but she seized him with both hers, and dragged him into the house. She flew at him as if she meant to assault him, putting down the collar of his coat, pulling off his cap, thrusting a hat into his hand--a few hours since how those touches, this familiarity, would have moved them both. She did it all now like a nurse dressing a child, while he stood stupid, not resisting.