drink and flung himself down to read it.

It came from the only relation he possessed in the world--his brother.
Bernard Monck was the elder by fifteen years--a man of brilliant
capabilities, who had long since relinquished all idea of worldly
advancement in the all-absorbing interest of a prison chaplaincy. They
had not met for over five years, but they maintained a regular
correspondence, and every month brought to Everard Monck the thin
envelope directed in the square, purposeful handwriting of the man who
had been during the whole of his life his nearest and best friend. Lying
back in the wicker-chair, relaxed and weary, he opened the letter and
began to read.

Ten minutes later, Tommy Denvers, racing in, also in polo-kit, stopped
short upon the threshold and stared in shocked amazement as if some
sudden horror had caught him by the throat.

"Great heavens above, Monck! What's the matter?" he ejaculated.

Perhaps it was in part due to the green twilight of the room, but it
seemed to him in that first startled moment that Monck's face had the
look of a man who had received a deadly wound. The impression passed
almost immediately, but the memory of it was registered in his brain for
all time.

Monck raised the tumbler to his lips and drank before replying, and as
he did so his customary grave composure became apparent, making Tommy
wonder if his senses had tricked him. He looked at the lad with sombre
eyes as he set down the glass. His brother's letter was still gripped in
his hand.