The boy stopped with his back towards the other. But he did not turn round. Robin put the cover back on the porridge dish and crossed the room. “You all seem in the deuce of a hurry this morning ...” he said. Still the boy made no reply. “Why, Horace, what’s the matter?” Robin put his hand on young Trevert’s shoulder. Horace shook him roughly off. “I don’t care to discuss it with you, Robin!” he said. Robin deliberately swung the boy round until he faced him. “My dear old thing,” he expostulated. “What does it all mean? _What_ won’t you discuss with me?” Horace Trevert looked straight at the speaker. His upper lip was pouted and trembled a little. “What’s the use of talking?” he said. “You know what I mean. Or would you like me to be plainer ...” Robin met his gaze unflinchingly. “I certainly would,” he said, “if it’s going to enlighten me as to why you should suddenly choose to behave like a lunatic ...” Horace Trevert leant back and thrust his hands into his pockets. “After what happened here yesterday,” he said, speaking very clearly and deliberately, “I wonder you have the nerve to stay ...” “My dear Horace,” said Robin quite impassively, “would you mind being a little more explicit? What precisely are you accusing me of? What have I done?” “Done?” exclaimed the young man heatedly. “Done? Good God! Don’t you realize that you have dragged my sister into this wretched business? Don’t you understand that her name will be bandied about before a lot of rotten yokels at the inquest?” Robin Greve’s eyes glittered dangerously. “I confess,” he said, with elaborate politeness, “I scarcely understand what it has to do with me that Hartley Parrish should apparently commit suicide within a few days of becoming engaged to your sister ...” “Ha!” Horace Trevert snorted indignantly. “You don’t understand, don’t you? We don’t understand either. But, I must say, we thought _you_ did!” With that he turned to go. But Robin caught him by the arm. “Listen to me, Horace,” he said. “I’m not going to quarrel with you in this house of death. But you’re going to tell here and now what you meant by that remark. Do you understand? I’m going to know!” Horace Trevert shook himself free. “Certainly you shall know,” he answered with _hauteur_, “but I must say I should have thought that, as a lawyer and so on, you would have guessed my meaning without my having to explain. What I mean is that, now that Hartley Parrish is dead, there is only one man who knows what drove him to his death. And that’s yourself! Do you want it plainer than that?” Robin took a step back and looked at his friend. But he did not speak. “And now,” the boy continued, “perhaps you will realize that your presence here is disagreeable to Mary ...” “Did Mary ask you to tell me this?” Robin broke in. His voice had lost its hardness. It was almost wistful. The change of tone was so marked that it struck Horace. He hesitated an instant.