The word came more horribly because of an air of detachment from the man’s mind.  It was like a soulless, evil mechanism, running unguided.  Miller caught at a chair.

“I don’t believe it, sir,” he gasped.  “No lawyer shall make me.  I’ve known him since he was ten, Judge, and they’re mistaken.  It’s not any mere lawyers can make me believe that awful thing, sir, of our Master Jack.”  The servant was shaking from head to foot with intense rejection, and the man put up his hand as if to ward off his emotion.

“I wish I could agree with you,” he said quietly, and then added, “Thank you, Miller.”  And the old butler, walking as if struck with a sickness, was gone.

The man sat on the edge of the divan staring out of the window, minute after minute; the November wind tossed the clean, black lines of the branches backward and forward against the copper sky, as if a giant hand moved a fan of sea-weed before a fire.  The man sat still and stared.  The sky dulled; the delicate, wild branches melted together; the diamond lines in the window blurred; yet, unmoved, unseeing, the eyes stared through them.

The burr of an electric bell sounded; some one came in at the front door and came to the door of the library, but the fixed figure did not stir.  The newcomer stood silent a minute, two minutes; a young man in clerical dress, boyish, with gray, serious eyes.  At length he spoke.

“May I come in?  It’s Dick.”

The man’s head turned slowly and his look rested inquiringly on his nephew.  It was a minute before he said, as if recognizing him, “Dick.  Yes.”  And set himself as before to the persistent gazing through the window.

“I lost you at the court-house,” the younger man said.  “I didn’t mean to let you come home alone.”

“Thank you, Dick.”  It seemed as if neither joy nor sorrow would find a way into the quiet voice again.

The wind roared; the boughs rustled against the glass; the fire, soberly settled to work, steamed and crackled; the clock ticked indifferently; there was no other sound in the room; the two men were silent, the one staring always before him, the other sitting with a hand on the older man’s hand, waiting.  Minutes they sat so, and the wintry sky outside darkened and lay sullenly in bands of gray and orange against the windows; the light of the logs was stronger than the daylight; it flickered carelessly across the ashiness of the emotionless face.  The young man, watching the face, bent forward and gripped his other hand on the unresponsive one in his clasp.

“Uncle,” he asked, “will it make things worse if I talk to you?”

“No, Dick.”

Nothing made a difference, it seemed.  Silence or words must simply fall without effect on the rock bottom of despair.  The young man halted, as if dismayed, before this overpowering inertia of hopelessness; he drew a quick breath.

“A coroner’s jury isn’t infallible.  I don’t believe it of Jack—­a lot of people don’t believe it,” he said.