‘It is you, is it?’ said Conway.  ‘I thought it was Broughton.’ then he looked into the man’s face and saw that he was ashy pale.  All that appearance of low-bred jauntiness which used to belong to him seemed to have been washed out of him.  His hair had forgotten to curl, his gloves had been thrown aside, and even his trinkets were out of sight.  ’What has happened,’ said Conway.  ‘What is the matter?  Something is wrong.’  Then it occurred to him that Musselboro had been sent to the house to tell the wife of the husband’s ruin.

‘The servant told me that I should find you upstairs,’ said Musselboro.

’Yes; I have a painting here.  For some time past I have been doing a picture of Miss Van Siever.  Mrs Van Siever has been here today.’  Conway thought that this information would produce some strong effect on Clara’s proposed husband; but he did not seem to regard the matter of the picture nor the mention of Miss Van Siever’s name.

‘She knows nothing of it?’ said he.  ‘She doesn’t know yet?’

‘Know what?’ said Conway.  ‘She knows that her husband has lost money.’

‘Dobbs has—­destroyed himself.’

‘What!’

’Blew his brains out this morning just inside the entrance at Hook Court.  The horror of drink was on him, and he stood just in the pathway and shot himself.  Bangles was standing at the top of their vaults and saw him do it.  I don’t think Bangles will ever be a man again.  Oh lord!  I shall never get over it myself.  The body was there when I went in.’  Then Musselboro sank back against the wall of the staircase, and stared at Dalrymple as though he still saw before him the terrible sight of which he had just spoken.

Dalrymple seated himself on the stairs and strove to bring his mind to bear on the tale which he had just heard.  What was he to do, and how was that poor woman upstairs to be informed?  ’You came here intending to tell her,’ he said in a whisper.  He feared every moment that Mrs Broughton would appear on the stairs, and learn from a word or two what had happened without any hint to prepare her for the catastrophe.

’I thought you would be here.  I knew you were doing the picture.  He knew it.  He’d a letter to say so—­one of those anonymous ones.’

‘But that didn’t influence him?’

‘I don’t think it was that,’ said Musselboro.  ’He meant to have had it out with her; but it wasn’t that as brought this about.  Perhaps you didn’t know that he was clean ruined?’

‘She had told me.’

‘Then she knew it?’

’Oh, yes; she knew that.  Mrs Van Siever had told her.  Poor creature!  How are we to break this to her?’