"Or get messages from us?"
"No. How could we?"
"Is there anything in it?"
Mr. Don is not speaking to his son. He goes to the little table and looks long at it. Has it taken on a sinister aspect? Those chairs, are they guarding a secret?
"d.i.c.k, this table--your mother--how could they----"
He turns, to find that d.i.c.k has gone.
"d.i.c.k! My boy! d.i.c.k!"
The well-remembered voice leaves a message behind it.
"Be bright, father."
Mr. Don sits down by the fire to think it all out.