“Forget,” he murmured to himself; and then he felt a longing to convey at once to Miss Gault the news that a man upon his deathbed had confused William Solent with God!

But at the image of Miss Gault, tumbling over her milk-bottle upon his father’s grave, a sudden moisture seemed to flow into the cavities behind his eyeballs.

“It’s not for you,” he said grimly to the figure on the bed, as he recognized this tendency to tears. “It’s for Miss Gault.” And actuated by a queer desire to prove to the corpse that it was not “for him,” he laid the tips of his fingers on the bookseller’s forehead. “How soon do they get cold?” he said to himself.⁠ ⁠…

At this point he heard the door opening down below, and the sound of voices and footsteps. He hurried out of the room and met Christie on the stairs.