When I think of him, I tremble before the awful isolation of the human soul.
What does one man know of his brother?
Yes; the coldest of poets was right: "We mortal millions live alone." It is only the unconquerable faith in Humanity by which we live that saves us from standing aghast with conjecture before those who are so near and dear to us that we feel them part of our very selves.
Adrian was dead and could not speak.

What was it that in the first place made him yield to temptation?
What kink in the brain warped his moral sense?
God is his judge, poor boy, not I.Tom Castleton had put the manuscript of "The Diamond Gate" into his hands.

Undoubtedly he was to arrange for its publication.

Castleton's appointment to the professorship in Australia had been a sudden matter, as I well remember, necessitating a feverish scramble to get his affairs in order before he sailed.

Why did not Adrian in the affectionate glow of parting send the manuscript straight off to a publisher?
At first it was merely a question of despatching a parcel and writing a covering letter.