He saw the tragedy on the boy's face; but he was merciless. Previously to his descent he had left the nail and spike on the wall, and with these he fastened the blanket to the stone coping. A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. To him she had always appeared as a mere pleasure-loving parasite—something quite insignificant. She had to resist an impulse of sheer terror, to run out after them and give in.
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