He kept staring down out of that library-window past his employer’s profile. That purple glow from the flowerbed⁠ ⁠… those dead leaves⁠ ⁠… why was there no dew down there? It was autumn dew he was thinking about that August day⁠ ⁠… silvery mist upon purple flowers.⁠ ⁠… “The most important things in my life,” he said to himself, “are what come back to me from forgotten walks, when I’ve been alone.⁠ ⁠… Dark grass with purplish flowers⁠ ⁠… dead leaves with dew on them.⁠ ⁠… I wonder,” he thought, “how much room those undertakers left between old Smith’s face and his coffin-lid?”

And then he thought, “I wonder if old Smith ever noticed the look of dew upon dead leaves?” and he shifted his position a little, as a cold shiver went through him.

But Mr. Urquhart now broke silence. Some telepathic wave must have passed from his secretary’s wandering mind into his own.