Brian looked, and flinched from the sight he saw. For a strange thing had happened. Although not actually unusual, it had never before come within the experience of any of these watchers of the dead, and thus it suggested to them nothing but the old superstition which in old times caused a supposed murderer to be brought face to face with the man he was accused of having killed. A drop of blood was trickling from the nostril of the dead man, and losing itself in the thick, black moustache upon his upper lip. It was followed by another or two, and then it stayed. The mother did not speak again. Her hand sank; her eyes were riveted upon Brian's face with a mute reproach. And Brian, although he knew well enough in his sober senses that the phenomenon they had just seen was merely caused by the breaking of some small blood-vessel in the brain, such as often occurs after death, was so far dominated by the impression of the moment that he walked out of the room, not daring to justify himself in his mother's eyes, not daring to raise his head. After him crept Hugo whose teeth chattered as though he were suffering from an ague; but Brian took no more notice of his cousin. He went straight to his own room and locked himself in, to bear his lonely sorrow as best he might. No formal inquiry was made into the cause of Richard Luttrell's death. Archie Grant's testimony completely exonerated Brian, even of carelessness, and the general opinion was that no positive blame could be attached to anybody for the sad occurrence, and that Mr. Brian Luttrell had the full sympathy and respect of all who knew him and had known his lamented brother, Richard Luttrell of Netherglen. So the matter ended. But idle tongues still wagged, and wise heads were shaken over the circumstances attending Richard Luttrell's death. It was partly Mrs. Luttrell's fault. In the first hours of her bereavement she had spoken wildly and bitterly of the share which Brian had had in causing Richard's death. She had spoken to Doctor Muir, to Angela, to Mrs. Shairp--a few words only to each, but enough to show in what direction her thoughts were tending. With the first two her words were sacred, but Mrs. Shairp, though kindly enough, was not so trustworthy. Before the good woman realised what she was doing, the whole household, nay, the whole country-side, had learned that Mrs. Luttrell believed her second son to have fired that fatal shot with the intention of killing, or at least of maiming, his brother Richard.