And as he uttered that hideous blasphemy the person began to whistle. He whistled gently an air from I Pagliacci , and to Stephen Byrne, it was merciful music. For it was a favourite tune of John Egerton’s, bowled often by both of them at casual gatherings of the Hammerton Choir in Mrs. Bryne’s drawing-room. It must be John, after all, this person on the doorstep; good old John⁠—thank God! If it was John, he would let him in; he would tell him the whole story. John must help him.

It was suddenly revealed to Stephen that he could not bear this burden alone. It was too much. John was the man.