none understood him so well as Bobby Galleon. Bobby had always understood him, and now he felt for him with a tenderness that had both the past and the future to heighten its poignancy. It seemed to Bobby that nothing more tragic than the death of this child could possibly have occurred. It filled him with anxiety for the future, it intensified to a depth that only so simple and affectionate a character as his could feel, the love that he had always had for Peter.
He was with him during these days continually, waiting for the relief to come.
“It's got to come soon,” he said, “or the boy'll go mad.”
At last it came.
One day about tea-time they were sitting in Peter's upstairs study. It had been a day of showers and now the curtains were not drawn and a green-grey dusk glimmered beyond the windows.
Peter was writing letters, and as Bobby watched him he seemed to him like some automaton, something wound into life by some clever inventor. The hand moved across the paper—the dead eyes encountered nothing in their gaze, the shoulders were the loosely drooping shoulders of an old man.
“Can you see, Peter?”
“Yes, thanks. Switch on the light if you like.”
Bobby got up and moved to the door. The dusk behind Peter's face flung it into sharp white outline.
Another shower! The rain at first in single drops, then more swiftly, fell with gentle, pattering fingers up and down the window. It was the only sound, except the scraping of Peter's pen. The pen stopped. Peter raised his head, listening.
Bobby switched on the light and as he did so Peter in a strangled breathless mutter whispered—
“The rain! The rain! It was like that that night. Stephen! Stephen!”
His head fell on to his hands and he burst into a storm of tears.
II
And now Peter was out to be hurt, hurt more horribly than he could have ever believed possible. It was like
