The Major must have made an unexpected attack, probably by a kick that had temporarily disabled Frank, and must then, with Mr. Partington’s judicial though amused approval, have proceeded to inflict chastisement upon Frank as he lay on the floor.  This must have gone on for a considerable time; Frank seemed to have been heavily kicked all over his body.  And the thing must have ended with a sudden uncontrolled attack on the part of the Major, not only with his boots, but with at least one of the heavy bottles.  The young man’s head was cut deeply, as if by glass, and it was probably three or four kicks on the head, before Mr. Partington could interfere, that had concluded the punishment.  The doctor’s evidence entirely corroborated this interpretation of events.  It was, of course, impossible to know whether Frank had had the time or the will to make any resistance.  The police had been communicated with, but there was no news yet of the two men involved.

* * * * *

It was one of those bleak, uncomfortable dawns that have no beauty either of warmth or serenity—­at least it seemed so here in Turner Road.  Above the torn and dingy strip of lace that shrouded the lower part of the window towered the black fronts of the high houses against the steely western sky.  It was extraordinarily quiet.  Now and then a footstep echoed and died suddenly as some passer-by crossed the end of the street; but there was no murmur of voices yet, or groups at the doors, as, no doubt, there would be when the news became known.

The room, too, was cheerless; the fire was long ago gone out; the children’s bed was still tumbled and disordered, and the paraffin lamp had smoked itself out half an hour ago.  Overhead the clergyman could hear now and again a very gentle footstep, and that was all.

He was worn out with excitement and a kind of terror; and events took for him the same kind of clear, hard outline as did the physical objects themselves in this cold light of dawn.  He had passed through a dozen moods:  furious anger at the senseless crime, at the hopeless, miserable waste of a life, an overwhelming compassion and a wholly unreasonable self-reproach for not having foreseen danger more clearly the night before.  There were other thoughts that had come to him too—­doubts as to whether the internal significance of all these things were in the least analogous to the external happenings; whether, perhaps, after all, the whole affair were not on the inner side a complete and perfect event—­in fact, a startling success of a nature which he could not understand.  Certainly, exteriorly, a more lamentable failure and waste could not be conceived; there had been sacrificed such an array of advantages—­birth, money, education, gifts, position—­and for such an exceedingly small and doubtful good, that no additional data, it would appear, could possibly explain the situation.  Yet was it possible that such data did exist somewhere, and that another golden and perfect deed had been done—­that there was no waste, no failure, after all?