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that Brad needed him—that Eunice had called—that if only he could get there soon enough——

He whirled about wildly. "I'll go look for him——"

They caught him at the door and dragged him back and made him sit down. Someone said, "You don't understand, Jock. Brad's dead. He shot himself. You can't do anything now."

Then there came a sort of crashing, as though the words were being driven into his brain with big hammers, syllable by syllable. Brad is dead. He shot himself. Can't do anything now. Brad is dead. . . . And he knew that it was true. He could see Brad's face as he had seen it last, tormented, and he thought he must have known all along that this was what it inevitably portended. A groan tore from his lips. "Yes—I know—but why? Why?"

After a time he was calmer. He looked up and saw them all. . . . They were doing such silly things. Talking to him gently, and bringing him water to drink, and fussing about him like a bunch of old women. "Let me alone," he said. "I'm all right." Fools! Did they think to ease this agony with pats upon the back? Suddenly he could not bear them. Their faces, and their eyes glued to his face. He stood up, shrugging away the hands that sought to detain him, and moved off from them, upstairs, to his room. He locked the door and lay down on his bed and stared up at the ceiling. . . .

Why?

Afterward he went to the bungalow. A tall young man in a fur coat, walking slowly along, his hatless head bowed, his somber eyes on the ground. He did