As Hugh placed his hand on the door-knob of No 19, he heard something
that sounded suspiciously like a sob from across the hall. He paused and
listened. He was sure that he could hear some one crying.

"Wonder what's wrong," he thought, instantly disturbed and sympathetic.

He crossed the hall and tapped lightly on Morse's door. There was no
answer; nor was there any when he tapped a second time. For a moment he
was abashed, and then he pushed open the door and entered Morse's room.

In the far corner Morse was sitting at his, desk, his head buried in his
arms, his shoulders shaking. He was crying fiercely, terribly; at times
his whole body jerked in the violence of his sobbing.

Hugh stood by the door embarrassed and rather frightened. Morse's grief
brought a lump to his throat. He had never seen any one cry like that
before. Something had to be done. But what could he do? He had no right
to intrude on Morse, but he couldn't let the poor fellow go on suffering
like that. As he stood there hesitant, shaken, Morse buried his head
deeper in his arms, moaned convulsively, twisting and trembling after a
series of sobs that seemed to tear themselves from him. That was too
much for Hugh. He couldn't stand it. Some force outside of him sent him
across the room to Morse. He put his hand on a quivering shoulder and
said gently:

"What is it, Morse? What's the matter?"

Morse ran his hand despairingly through his red hair, shook his head,
and made no answer.