your brother reviewed a book very severely not long before he died, and just lately I have happened to cross the path of the man who wrote that book in a way he would resent.”
“Don't tell me the man was called Karswell.”
“Why not? that is exactly his name.”
Henry Harrington leant back. “That is final to my mind. Now I must explain further. From something he said, I feel sure that my brother John was beginning to believe—very much against his will—that Karswell was at the bottom of his trouble. I want to tell you what seems to me to have a bearing on this situation. My brother was a great musician, and used to run up to concerts in town. He came back, three months before he died, from one of these, and gave me his programme to look at—an analytical programme: he always kept them. ‘I nearly missed this one’ he said. ‘I suppose I must have dropped it: anyhow I was looking for it under my seat and in my pockets and so on, and my neighbour offered me his: said ‘might
