The Saturday evening post . ILLUSTRATED B r ERNEST F V H R. He disappeared into the house and returned presentlyto find his brother comfortably absorbed on a garden seatwith the middle page of the Telegraph. Its not in the sitting room, Horace, he reported. Ihave looked everywhere. It doesnt matter, said Horace. I must have leftit in my bedroom. Ill go and see, said Ernest with undiminished eager-ness. He disappeared, returned again not in your bedroom, Horace, he said regretfully. But Horace was now obviously paying no attention tohim or to his failure to find the cigarette
The Saturday evening post . ILLUSTRATED B r ERNEST F V H R. He disappeared into the house and returned presentlyto find his brother comfortably absorbed on a garden seatwith the middle page of the Telegraph. Its not in the sitting room, Horace, he reported. Ihave looked everywhere. It doesnt matter, said Horace. I must have leftit in my bedroom. Ill go and see, said Ernest with undiminished eager-ness. He disappeared, returned again not in your bedroom, Horace, he said regretfully. But Horace was now obviously paying no attention tohim or to his failure to find the cigarette case. Horace wasstaring at the Daily Telegraph with an expression ofmingled pity, surprise and horror. My word! he exclaimed, allowing the Telegraph todroop to his plumpish knees and raising to his brothera face of tragic impressiveness. Baxter is dead! Dead? repeated Ernest, awe-struck. He was drowned bathing at Braymouth,on—he referred to the Telegraph—yes, heaven! said Ernest. He felt that the ejaculation wasinadequate, trivial, unwo
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