In a room in the west of London--a room full of pictures and bric-a-brac, of quaint and luxurious furniture, with volumes abundant, with a piano in a shadowed corner, a violin and a mandoline laid carelessly aside--two men sat facing each other, their looks expressive of anything but mutual confidence.

The one (he wore an overcoat, and had muddy boots) was past middle age, bald, round-shouldered, dressed like a country gentleman; upon his knees lay a small hand-bag, which he seemed about to open, He leaned forward with a face of stern reproach, and put a short, sharp question: "Then why haven't I heard from you since my nephew's death ?" The other was not ready with a reply.

Younger, and more fashionably attired, he had assumed a lounging attitude which seemed natural to him, though it served also to indicate a mood of resentful superiority.
His figure was slight, and not ungraceful; his features--pale, thin, with heavy nose, high forehead--were intellectual and noteworthy, but lacked charm.
"I have been abroad till quite recently," he said at length, his fine accent contrasting with that of the questioner, which had a provincial note.

"Why did you expect me to communicate with you ?" "Don't disgrace yourself by speaking in that way, Mr.Glazzard!" exclaimed the other, his voice uncertain with strong, angry feeling.
"You know quite well why I have come here, and why you ought to have seen me long ago!" Thereupon he opened the bag and took out a manuscript-book.
"I found this only the other day among Harry's odds and ends.

It's a diary that he kept.