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he always so observant? Was it merely that impressions slid into his consciousness and out again because nothing happened to fix them there? It did seem now as if that scene must have been frozen into his mind indelibly by what followed it, because he could remember with photographic accuracy every face in the top tier opposite where at the moment he heard his name called, the little Jap was feverishly capering—
    Some one had called him, and then several others had echoed helpfully:
    â€œMr. Maclean! Mr. Maclean!”
    He looked along the row to a man whom he knew slightly and who was making explanatory gestures towards the door.
    â€œChap outside wants to speak to you,” some one offered. “Says it’s urgent.”
    He had pushed his way out of the room.
    He hadn’t ever known who the man was, but no face in the world was more clearly driven in upon his memory. He could see it now, lean and brown, all twisted up with embarrassment and a queer frightening pity—
    â€œIt’s your brother, Mr. Maclean – car accident – he’s in the Sydney Hospital. He said we’d find you here—”
    Ken had been in Melbourne at the time, so he’d known at once it was Jim. He didn’t think he’d spoken at all. Not in the lift, not in the street. Only once, in the taxi, he seemed to have a vague memory of his own voice saying: “Serious?” and the man’s answering something that made his mouth go dry and his head throb with a sudden violent headache—
    It hadn’t looked much like Jim – the face half-covered with bandages, the other half yellowish white, sunburn without blood beneath it—
    He’d said:
    â€œIs that you, Bret? I can’t see properly.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œListen – something important. Are you listening?”
    â€œYes. Go on.”
    â€œSusan. Yesterday – she told me – she was going to have a baby—”
    He’d stopped, his eyes closed as if gathering strength to speak again. In himself, like a spark in dry timber Bret had felt his dislike of Susan flame into hatred. Illogically enough, as he admitted now, he’d thoughtof her as directly responsible for the death that even now was shadowing Jim’s face. It tore his heart with pity and resentment that, suffering, dying, his brother could think of her, could spend his last moments in worrying about her, his last breath in speaking of her—
    â€œOf course – I’ve always wanted – marry her. She wouldn’t. Now—”
    â€œYes,” thought Bret, bitterly, cynically, “‘now—’!”
    â€œShe – wanted last night to think it over. Said she’d meet me at the flat. To-day. I – was going there—”
    Going there! To her. And if he hadn’t been, Bret’s thoughts had raved blackly, he wouldn’t have been hurt, killed—
    â€œThink it over!” Another night to torment him was what she’d wanted, the—
    Staring at the blue valley he put his hand suddenly to his eyes. For his thoughts of her then had been so dark, so ugly with fury and contempt and bitterness that he couldn’t even now remember them without shrinking.
    Jim’s voice had broken in on them, hoarse and dragging with effort:
    â€œI want you – go there – tell her – see her through – look after the kid—”
    He was glad now that he’d had enough control to say, “Yes. Yes, Jim, all right, I will.” The boy hadn’t been able to speak any more after that, or perhaps to hear either, and there’d been a ghastly interminable hour of sunlight and silence and queer hospital smells while he lay there and struggled with the breath that was so soon to forsake him—

CHAPTER EIGHT
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    F AR down inthe valley between the tree-tops which looked, from here, like so much dark moss spread upon the ground, his eye caught a glint of silver. His eye