Mrs. Trevennack and Cleer both gave a start of surprise. The man's
words astonished them; for never before, during fifteen long years,
had that unhappy father alluded in any way in overt words to his son's
tragic end. He had brooded and mused over it in his crushed and
wounded spirit; he had revisited the scene of his loss whenever
opportunity permitted him; he had made of his sorrow a cherished and
petted daily companion; but he had stored it up deep in his own inmost
heart, never uttering a word of it even to his wife or daughter. The
two women knew Michael Trevennack must be profoundly moved, indeed, so
to tear open the half-healed wound in his tortured bosom before two
casual strangers.

But Tyrrel, too, gave a start as he spoke, and looked hard at the
careworn face of that unhappy man. "Then you're Mr. Trevennack!" he
exclaimed, all aghast. "Mr. Trevennack of the Admiralty!"

And the dignified stranger answered, bowing his head very low, "Yes,
you've guessed me right. I'm Michael Trevennack."

With scarcely a word of reply Walter Tyrrel turned and strode away
from the spot. "I must go now," he muttered faintly, looking at his
watch with some feigned surprise, as a feeble excuse. "I've an
appointment at home." He hadn't the courage to stay. His heart misgave
him. Once fairly round the corner he fled like a wounded creature, too
deeply hurt even to cry. Eustace Le Neve, raising his hat, hastened
after him, all mute wonder. For several hundred yards they walked on
side by side across the open heathy moor. Then, as they passed the
first wall, Tyrrel paused for a moment and spoke. "NOT a murderer!" he
cried in his anguish; "oh, no, not quite as bad as a murderer, surely,
Eustace; but still, a culpable homicide. Oh, God, how terrible."