me with something of the clearness of prophecy that
this was not the end but the beginning of the play. It was something
closely akin to second sight, and for the moment the spaciousness of the
vision that I saw but dimly thrilled me with its possibilities. I knew,
though how I knew I cannot say even at this distant date, that the calm,
silent policemen with their helmets in their hands, the earnest,
energetic divisional surgeon, and his confrere the sergeant, even the
dead man himself, were but the merest supers in the prelude to
adventure. Moira and I were the only ones who were real, the only actors
that were something more than mummers. Yet even I failed to see that
what had happened that night was something more than a queer insoluble
mystery. There was nothing in my experience to tell me that it was
vitally connected with the early history of Victoria, that it had its
being in the now far-off days before Australia became a nation. I think
if any supernatural whisper of the truth had reached me that I would not
have been surprised, but that is the most that I can say.

I came back abruptly to reality to find a cold wind blowing in through
the crack in the window. The doctor and the two policemen between them
were lifting Bryce out of the chair he would never more occupy, and I,
with my profounder knowledge of death and its consequences, saw just
what they were going to do.

"I think I'd better take Miss Drummond outside for the present," I
whispered to the sergeant. The man nodded, and, taking Moira by the arm,
I led her from the room.

"It would be better if you could go to bed," I suggested.

She shook her head wearily. "I can't, Jim. It's no good trying to
persuade me. I just couldn't."

"I think I understand," I said softly.

"I don't feel sorry a bit, Jim. I know it's a strange thing to say, but
it's the truth, and there it is. I couldn't summon a tear. But just
inside me there's a vacancy, a sense of loss. He's gone out of my life,
and I'll never meet anyone who'll quite take his place. I can't put what
I mean into so many words, but I think you can understand. You're quick
at understanding, Jim. I don't feel sorry a bit, and I don't want to
cry, somehow; but I'll miss him dreadfully. I'm hard in some ways, Jim.
I must be terribly devoid of affection."

I made no answer to that. My thoughts were on one summer's evening
four--or was it five?--years ago, and in the light of what had happened
then I cou