It was not unremarked that a long time elapsed between the discovery of the suicide and its being heard of by anyone who had an interest in making it generally known.  With the exception of two persons, all who were engaged upon the production of the newspaper went home in complete ignorance of what had happened, so cautiously and successfully was the situation dealt with by the sub-editor and his informant.  When, after an examination by the doctor, who had been summoned in all secrecy, it became necessary to communicate with the police, the employees had all gone away, and the printed sheets had been conveyed to the distributing agents.  Naturally, the subeditor of Stock and Share’ preserved a certain reticence in the matter; but one could hardly be mistaken in assuming that the directors of the Britannia Company —­ two or three of them, at all events —­ had an opportunity of surveying their position long before the hour when this momentous news got abroad.

With regard to the company’s affairs, only conjecture could be as yet indulged in.  In view of the immediate stoppage of business, it was pretty safe to surmise that alarming disclosures awaited the public.  No one, of course, would be justified in prejudging the case against the unhappy man who, amid seemingly brilliant circumstances, had been driven to so desperate an act.

And so on, and so on, in one journal after another, in edition upon edition.  Harvey Rolfe read them till he was weary, listened to the gossip of the club till he was nauseated.  He went home at length with a headache, and, having carefully avoided contact with Buncombe or Mrs Handover, made an effort to absorb himself in a volume of Gregorovius, which was at present his study.  The attempt was futile.  Talk still seemed to buzz about him; his temples throbbed; his thoughts wandered far and wide.  Driven to bed long before his accustomed hour, he heard raucous voices rending the night, bellowing in hideous antiphony from this side of the street and the other, as the vendors of a halfpenny paper made the most of what Providence had sent them.

The first thing after breakfast next morning, he posted a line to Hugh Carnaby.  ’Is there any way in which I can be of use to you?  If you think not, I shall be off tomorrow to Greystone for a few days.  I feel as if we were all being swept into a ghastly whirlpool which roars over the bottomless pit.  Of course, I will stay if I can do anything, no matter what.  Otherwise, address for a week to Basil Morton’s.’

This he dropped into the nearest pillar-box, and, as the sun was endeavouring to shine, he walked the length of the street, a pretence of exercise.  On his way back he was preceded by a telegraph boy, who stopped at Buncombe’s front door, and awoke the echoes with a twofold double knock.  Before the servant could open, Harvey was on the steps.

‘What name?’

‘Rolfe.’

‘For me, then.’