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He woke with a start, having a feeling of something out beyond the light, and without turning his head said: “What’s that?” There came a sound as if somebody had caught his breath. He turned up the lamp.

“Who’s there?”

A voice over by the door answered:

“Only I–Larry.”

Something in the tone, or perhaps just being startled out of sleep like this, made him shiver. He said:

“I was asleep. Come in!”

It was noticeable that he did not get up, or even turn his head, now that he knew who it was, but waited, his half-closed eyes fixed on the fire, for his brother to come forward. A visit from Laurence was not an unmixed blessing. He could hear him breathing, and became conscious of a scent of whisky. Why could not the fellow at least abstain when he was coming here! It was so childish, so lacking in any sense of proportion or of decency! And he said sharply:

“Well, Larry, what is it?”

It was always something. He often wondered at the strength of that sense of trusteeship, which kept him still tolerant of the troubles, amenable to the petitions of this brother of his; or was it just “blood” feeling, a Highland sense of loyalty to kith and kin; an old-time quality which judgment and half his instincts told him was weakness but which, in spite of all, bound him to the distressful fellow? Was he drunk now, that he kept lurking out there by the door? And he said less sharply:

“Why don’t you come and sit down?”

He was coming now, avoiding the light, skirting along the walls just beyond the radiance of the lamp, his feet and legs to the waist brightly lighted, but his face disintegrated in shadow, like the face of a dark ghost.

“Are you ill, man?”

Still no answer, save a shake of that head, and the passing up of a hand, out of the light, to the ghostly forehead under the dishevelled hair. The scent of whisky was stronger now; and Keith thought:

‘He really is drunk. Nice thing for the new butler to see! If he can’t behave–‘

The figure against the wall heaved a sigh–so truly from an overburdened heart that Keith was conscious with a certain dismay of not having yet fathomed the cause of this uncanny silence. He got up, and, back to the fire, said with a brutality born of nerves rather than design:

“What is it, man? Have you committed a murder, that you stand there dumb as a fish?”

For a second no answer at all, not even of breathing; then, just the whisper:

“Yes.”

The sense of unreality which so helps one at moments of disaster enabled Keith to say vigorously:

“By Jove! You have been drinking!”

But it passed at once into deadly apprehension.

“What do you mean? Come here, where I can see you. What’s the matter with you, Larry?”

With a sudden lurch and dive, his brother left the shelter of the shadow, and sank into a chair in the circle of light. And another long, broken sigh escaped him.

“There’s nothing the matter with me, Keith! It’s true!”

Keith stepped quickly forward, and stared down into his brother’s face; and instantly he saw that it was true. No one could have simulated the look in those eyes–of horrified wonder, as if they would never again get on terms with the face to which they belonged. To see them squeezed the heart-only real misery could look like that. Then that sudden pity became angry bewilderment.

“What in God’s name is this nonsense?”

But it was significant that he lowered his voice; went over to the door, too, to see if it were shut. Laurence had drawn his chair forward, huddling over the fire–a thin figure, a worn, high-cheekboned face with deep-sunk blue eyes, and wavy hair all ruffled, a face that still had a certain beauty. Putting a hand on that lean shoulder, Keith said:

“Come, Larry! Pull yourself together, and drop exaggeration.”