And they passed together along the passage to the drawing-room, where
the electric lamp was still keeping watch. Hugo stood by the side of the
coffin.

'What is it?' Darcy quietly asked.

'Have you ever been in love?' Hugo questioned him.

'Yes,' said Darcy.

'Then I will tell you. You will understand. I must tell someone. I loved
her.'

He touched the elm-wood gently, and hurried out of the room by the
French window.

* * * * *

Four days later Mr. Senior Polycarp called on Hugo in his central
office.

In the meantime the inquest had proved the correctness of Mr. Darcy's
diagnosis. Francis Tudor was buried, and Francis Tudor's wife was
buried. Hugo, who had accompanied the funerals disguised as one of his
own 'respectful attendants,' saw scarcely anyone. He had to recover the
command of his own soul, and to adopt some definite attitude towards the
army of suspicions which naturally had assailed him. Could he believe
Darcy? He decided that he could, and that he must. Darcy had inspired
him with confidence, and there was no doubt that the man had an