"It's the police," said Hindford. "There's something up." They hurried on, and in a moment saw what looked like a great black shadow, rising out of the water, lifting in his arms another shadow, which drooped and hung down with the little waves curling round it. As they drew close they saw that the first shadow was a policeman, up to his waist in the water, and the second shadow was a man whom he held in his arms, as he waded with difficulty to the shore. "Lend a hand, mates," he shouted as he saw them. Just then a light shone out over the black lake from the bull's-eye of a second policeman who had hurried up in answer to his comrade's whistle. Between them they quickly got the man on shore, and laid him down on the path on his back. The bull's-eye lantern, turned full on him, lit up a face that seemed all bony structure, staring eyes, a mouth out of which the water dripped. He had no coat on and his thin arms were like those of a skeleton. "Dead as a door-nail," said the first policeman. "A case of suicide." "God! Hindford, it's he! It's the chap who asked me for money this morning!" whispered Horace. "Is he really dead?" The Captain, who had been examining the body and feeling the heart, nodded. Horace gazed upon the white face with a sort of awful curiosity. He had never before looked at a corpse. "Look here, Errington," Hindford said to the boy that night as he parted from him in Park Lane, "don't tell your mother anything of this." "But--but, Hindford----" "Come, now, you take my advice. Keep a quiet tongue in your head." "But perhaps it was her fault; it was--if we'd given the poor chap something he'd----" "Probably. That's just the reason I don't want you to tell Mrs. Errington anything of it. Come, promise me on your honour." "All right, Hindford, I'll promise. How horrible it's all been!" "Don't think about it, lad. Good-night." Horace trembled as he stole up the black staircase to bed. He meant to keep his promise, of course, but he wondered whether the Mater would have owned that she was in the wrong that morning if she had heard his dreary tale of the beggar's death in the night. The next day it was Mrs. Errington who asked Horace to go out walking. She looked rather pale and fatigued at breakfast, but declared her intention of taking a constitutional. "Come with me, Horace," she said. "Very well," he answered, with a curious and almost shy boyish coldness. "Not into the Park, Mater," he said, as they were starting. "Why not? We always walk there. Where else should we go?" "Anywhere--shopping--Regent Street." "No, Horace, I've got a headache to-day. I want a quiet place." He didn't say more. They set out, and Mrs. Errington took the precise route they had followed the day before. She glanced rather sharply about her as they walked. Presently they reached the seat on which the beggar had been sitting just before he got up to follow them. Mrs. Errington paused beside it.