occurred when he was too young to see anything in it but a perfectly
natural removal of some one immensely old. The world had seemed the
easiest, the simplest of places, his years at Rugby had been delight.
Fully free from shocks of any kind. Good health, friendship, a little
learning, these things had made the days pass swiftly. Rupert Craven had
been yesterday, a child precisely typical of the system in which he
had been drilled; now he was something different. Olva knew that he was
capable of depths of feeling because of his extraordinary devotion to
his sister. Craven had often spoken of her to Olva--"So different
from me, the most brilliant person in the world. Her music is really
wonderful----people who know, I mean, all say so. But you see we're the
same age--only two of us. We've always been everything to one another."

Olva wondered why Craven had told him. It was not as though they had
ever been very intimate, but Craven seemed to think that Olva and his
sister would have much in common.

Olva wondered, as he looked at Craven standing there in the doorway, how
this sister would take the change in her brother. He had suddenly, as he
looked at Craven, a perception of the number of lives with whose course
his action had involved him. The wheel was beginning to turn. . . .

The light had gone from Craven's eyes. His vitality and energy had
slipped from him, leaving his body heavy, unalert. He seemed puzzled,
awed; there were dark lines under his eyes, his cheeks were pale and his
mouth had lost its tendency to smile, its lines were heavy; but, above
all, his expression was interrogative. Finally, he was puzzled.

For an instant, as he looked at him, Olva felt that he could not
face him, then with a deliberate summoning of the resources of his
temperament he strung himself to whatever the day might bring forth.

"This is awful----"

"Yes."

"Of course it doesn't matter to you, Dune, as it does to me, but I knew
the fellow so awfully well. It's horrible, horrible. That he should have
died--like that."

Olva broke out suddenly. "After all not such a bad way to die--swift
enough. I don't suppose Carfax valued life especially."

"Oh! he enjoyed it--enjoyed it like anything. And that it should be
taken so trivially, for no reason at all. It seems to be almost certain
that it was some tramp or other--robbery the motive probably, and then
he was startled and left the money--it was all lying about on the grass.
B