“All right!” he said.  “Let’s be off!”

A silent trio sought Paddington in a taxi-cab, digesting this desperate climax of an affair that sprang from origins so small.

In Felix, contemplating his daughter’s face, there was profound compassion, but also that family dismay, that perturbation of self-esteem, which public scandal forces on kinsmen, even the most philosophic.  He felt exasperation against Derek, against Kirsteen, almost even against Tod, for having acquiesced passively in the revolutionary bringing-up which had brought on such a disaster.  War against injustice; sympathy with suffering; chivalry!  Yes!  But not quite to the point whence they recoiled on his daughter, his family, himself!  The situation was impossible!  He was fast resolving that, whether or no they saved Derek from this quixotry, the boy should not have Nedda.  And already his eyes found difficulty in meeting hers.

They secured a compartment to themselves and, having settled down in corners, began mechanically unfolding evening journals.  For after all, whatever happens, one must read the papers!  Without that, life would indeed be insupportable!  Felix had bought Mr. Cuthcott’s, but, though he turned and turned the sheets, they seemed to have no sense till these words caught his eyes:  “Convict’s tragic death!  Yesterday afternoon at Worcester, while being conveyed from the assize court back to prison, a man named Tryst, sentenced to three years’ penal servitude for arson, suddenly attacked the warders in charge of him and escaped.  He ran down the street, hotly pursued, and, darting out into the traffic, threw himself under a motor-car going at some speed.  The car struck him on the head, and the unfortunate man was killed on the spot.  No reason whatever can be assigned for this desperate act.  He is known, however, to have suffered from epilepsy, and it is thought an attack may have been coming on him at the time.”

When Felix had read these words he remained absolutely still, holding that buff-colored paper before his face, trying to decide what he must do now.  What was the significance—­exactly the significance of this?  Now that Tryst was dead, Derek’s quixotic action had no meaning.  But had he already ‘confessed’?  It seemed from this account that the suicide was directly after the trial; even before the boy’s letter to Nedda had been written.  He must surely have heard of it since and given up his mad idea!  He leaned over, touched John on the knee, and handed him the paper.  John read the paragraph, handed it back; and the two brothers stared fixedly at each other.  Then Felix made the faintest movement of his head toward his daughter, and John nodded.  Crossing to Nedda, Felix hooked his arm in hers and said: 

“Just look at this, my child.”

Nedda read, started to her feet, sank back, and cried out: 

“Poor, poor man!  Oh, Dad!  Poor man!”

Felix felt ashamed.  Though Tryst’s death meant so much relief to her, she felt first this rush of compassion; he himself, to whom it meant so much less relief, had felt only that relief.