“Dead! but I was with him yesterday. My brother Cyril dined with him last night.” “I tell you it is a terrible thing. Poor fellow! His mind must have given way beneath the strain that the run upon the bank entailed upon him. Dear Agnes, let me help you to reach your chair. Pray lean on me.” She did not seem to hear what he had said. She was dazed but striving to recover herself. “I cannot understand,” she said. “It appears strange that I cannot understand when you have spoken quite plainly. But we were talking about Claude--not Dick. You were to find out what Dick thought regarding the rumour of Claude's being alive--so far I am quite clear. But here you come to me saying: 'It is Dick Westwood and not Claude who is dead.' What on earth can you mean by saying that, when all i wanted to know was about Claude?” “My dear Agnes, I can say nothing more. This second shock is too much for you. In a few minutes, however, you will be able to realise what has happened. Where is your brother? I must speak to him.” “No--no; do not leave me. If he is dead--and you say that he is dead--I have no friend in the world but you. Ah, you must not leave me. I do not think I have any one in the world but you.” She spoke in a tone of pitiful entreaty, holding out both her hands to him, as she had done once in the garden. He took her hands and held them for a moment, but he did not press them, as another man might have done, when she had spoken. He said gently: “I will not leave you--whatever may happen I will be by your side. Now you will sit down.” He had just helped her to one of the chairs that stood in the porch, when the portière was flung aside, and Cyril, in the art of lighting a cigarette, appeared. “Hallo, Agnes, I'm a bit late, I suppose,” he began, but seeing Sir Percival helping her as though she were as feeble as an invalid, to the chair, he stopped short. “What's the matter, Sir Percival?” he said, in another tone, but not one of great concern. “Tell him--tell him; perhaps he will understand,” said Agnes, looking up to Sir Percival's face. “You do not mind my speaking to him for a minute in the garden?” said Sir Percival. “Go; perhaps he will understand,” said she. He held up a linger to Cyril, and they went outside together. “What's the mystery now?” asked Cyril, picking up his straw hat from a chair. “I shouldn't wonder if it had something to do with Claude Westwood. My poor sister is overcome because she has received confirmation of his death probably. But you and I know, Sir Percival, that there has not been the smallest chance.” “I do not want to talk to you about Claude Westwood just at this minute, but about his brother,” said Sir Percival. “The fact is, that I have just returned from the Court. The dead body of Richard Westwood was found by a gardener this morning not twenty yards from his house. He had shot himself with a revolver.”