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 he was in mourning. I looked at him curiously, but said nothing. He sat down by my side and put a dusty legal bag at his feet.

"Have you heard about it?" he asked.

"I've heard nothing."

"Jack's dead!"

He spoke very quietly, but I could see he was badly hurt. Yet that was not the difference in him.

"I'm very sorry," I said. "How did it happen?" 'He was killed—murdered," said Tom steadily.

"And the murderer?"

"He's walking about," said Tom.

I saw where the difference lay. He was younger, in spite of the shock. And—well—there was something else. I eyed him curiously, and he looked at me steadily. There was nothing soft about his eyes now.

"I never saw you look so like him," I said. I had hit it that time—"plumb-centre" as they say out West.

"I got a letter from a chum of his," said