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 facing him. He looked, and a horrible shudder shook him. He looked again. But surely this was not Buck! This cold, set little mask of a face, with the look of angry surprise in the open eyes and on the compressed mouth, as though bitterly indeed he resented this outrageous jest that Fate had played on him. And that rigid body—those clenched hands—Buckskin, oh Buck!

Derek sprang from the bed. He ran to the foot of the stairs and shouted for Newbigging. Newbigging came headlong from his sleep.

"For God's sake what is it, sir?"

"The boy—the boy—he's dead!"

"Dead. How can that be? What killed him?"

"That same thing, I suppose. Come down! Come down!"

Newbigging came running.

Derek stood, sick and bewildered, in the passage while Newbigging was in the room. When he came out his step was heavy.

"You're richt enough, sir. The puir laddie's gone. Gone these hours past."

He took Derek by the arm and led him to the dining room. He gave him something to drink—something that burned his throat.

"Just sit here quietly a bit," said Newbigging.

Derek sat down in the armchair before the black hearth. He did not speak. He clasped his hands between his knees, and twisted and turned in his chair. His face was contorted with agony. He had not known that one could suffer so. Jock came and timidly licked his clinched hands. Buckskin, oh Buck!

After a while Newbigging said: "I think I should go for the doctor, Mr. Vale. It's customary."

"I won't stay here alone," said Derek, with a wild look