Again and again, as the train sped on, did Marsham go back over the
fatal interview which had led to these results. His mind, full of an
agony of remorse he could not still, was full also of storm and fury
against Barrington. Never had a journalist made a more shameful use of a
trust reposed in him.
With torturing clearness, imagination built up the scene in the garden:
the arrival of Broadstone's letter; the hand of the stricken man groping
for the newspaper; the effort of those pencilled lines; and, finally,
that wavering mark, John Ferrier's last word on earth.
If it had, indeed, been meant for him, Oliver--well, he had received
it; the dead man had reached out and touched him; he felt the brand upon
him; and it was a secret forever between Ferrier and himself.
The train was nearing St. Pancras. Marsham roused himself with an
effort. After all, what fault was it of his--this tragic coincidence of
a tragic day? If Ferrier had lived, all could have been explained; or if
not all, most. And because Ferrier had died of a sudden ailment, common
among men worn out with high responsibilities, was a man to go on
reproaching himself eternally for another man's vile behavior--for the
results of an indiscretion committed with no ill-intent whatever? With
miserable self-control, Oliver turned his mind to his approaching
interview with the Prime Minister.
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