Major Edward left the window.  As he passed his brother, he laid for a moment his hand upon the elder’s shoulder.  The touch was protective, almost tender.  “It’s a rough wind, Dick!  Bow your head and let it go over.”  He marched away, dragged a chair to the table, and sat down.  “Very well,” he said.  “He stopped at Tom Mocket’s.”

“Yes, but not merely at the gate, as he testified.  He went into the house, and there he washed the blood-stain from his sleeve.”

“Can you prove that?”

“I can prove that he went into the house.  A negro, running from the storm, saw him enter.  When that girl—­Vinie Mocket—­is put upon the stand, I expect to prove the remainder.  Now, the pistol—­”

Colonel Dick rose, walked heavily to the glass door, then back to the hearth.  “You stand there, as I have seen your father stand.  Well, go on!  We are men, Edward and I.”

“His pistols are handsome ones, the gift of Mr. Jefferson.  The murderer’s name is engraved upon them.  He has made, since September, a number of journeys, and he travels always with holsters to his saddle.  Well, not long ago, I bribed the hostler of a tavern where I knew he was to sleep.  I have seen the arms he carries.  Two holsters, two pistols—­but the latter do not match!  A different maker, a heavier weight, and the owner’s name but indifferently etched.  And yet there is in Richmond a man who will swear to Mr. Rand’s leaving town with the President’s gift intact!  The inference is, I think, that somewhere between Indian Run and Roselands the weapon vanished—­how and when and where I have yet to find.  I expect to recover it, and in the mean time I expect to force an explanation of those mismatched pistols.”

He had been standing without motion—­manner, voice, and attitude restrained and somewhat formal.  He now moved, took his hand from the table, and folded his arms.  “I came,” he said, “to tell you, Colonel Churchill, and you, Major Edward, you who were my brother’s friends and my father’s friends, I came to tell you that I shall apply for and obtain a warrant for the arrest of Lewis Rand.”

The words fell heavily, and when they were spoken, there was a silence in the library.  Major Edward broke it.  “You are determined, and I waste no breath in challenging the inevitable.  So be it!  The child will come home to us, Dick.”

The elder brother walked the length of the room and paused before the picture of Henry Churchill.  When at last he turned, his ruddy face was pale, his eyes wet.  “Henry was a proud man.  We grow old, and we grow to be thankful that the dead are dead!  Well, Edward, well! we’ve weathered much—­I reckon we can weather more.”  He halted at the glass door and stared out into the flowering garden.  “My little Jack!” he muttered, and drew his hand across his eyes.

Cary spoke from where he yet stood beside the table.  “I am aware—­how can I be other than aware?—­of the sorrow and anxiety which I bring upon this house.  As regards myself, you have but to indicate your wishes, sir.  I will come no more to Fontenoy, if my coming is unwelcome.  One interest here I confidently entrust to your generosity.  For the rest I will bow to your decision.  If you tell me so, sir, I will come no more—­though Fontenoy is well nigh as dear to me as Greenwood, and though I love and honour every inmate here.”