I was stumbling up steps--the steps of a terrace; a great house
lay before me, with lighted windows here and there, but these I
feared, and so came creeping to one that I knew well, and whose
dark panes glittered palely under the dying moon. And now I took
out my clasp-knife, and, fumbling blindly, put back the catch (as
I had often done as a boy), and so, the window opening, I
clambered into the dimness beyond.
Now as I stumbled forward my hand touched something, a long, dark
object that was covered with a cloth, and, hardly knowing what I
did, I drew back this cloth and looked down at that which it had
covered, and sank down upon my knees, groaning. For there,
staring up at me, cold, contemptuous, and set like marble, was
the smiling, dead face of my cousin Maurice.
As I knelt there, I was conscious that the door had opened, that
some one approached, bearing a light, but I did not move or heed.
"Peter?--good God in heaven!--is it Peter?" I looked up and into
the dilated eyes of Sir Richard. "Is it really Peter?" he
whispered.
"Yes, sir--dying, I think."
"No, no--Peter--dear boy," he stammered. "You didn't know--you
hadn't heard--poor Maurice--murdered--fellow--name of Smith--!"
"Yes, Sir Richard, I know more about it than most. You see, I am
Peter Smith." Sir Richard fell back from me, and I saw the
candle swaying in his grasp.
"You?" he whispered, "you? Oh, Peter!--oh, my boy!"
"But I am innocent--innocent--you believe me--you who were my
earliest friend--my good, kind friend--you believe me?" and I
stretched out my hands appealingly, but, as I did so, the light
fell gleaming upon my shameful wristlets; and, even as we gazed
into each other's eyes, mute and breathless, came the sound of
steps and hushed voices. Sir Richard sprang forward, and,
catching me in a powerful hand, half led, half dragged me behind
a tall leather screen beside the hearth, and thrusting me into a
chair, turned and hurried to meet the intruders.
They were three, as I soon discovered by their voices, one of
which I thought I recognized.
"It's a devilish shame!" the first was saying; "not a soul here
for the funeral but our four selves--I say it's a shame--a
burning shame!"
"That, sir, depends entirely on the point of view," answered the
second, a somewhat aggressive voice, and this it was I seemed to
recognize.
"Point of view, sir? Where, I should like to know, are all those
smiling nonentities--those fawning sycophants who were once so
proud of his patronage, who openly modelled themselves upon him,
whose highest ambition was to be called a friend of the famous
'Buck' Vibart where are they now?"