He, too, was bearing in some measure the burden of which he had spoken.

It seemed to him very strange that under the circumstances Horace had not explained his mysterious meeting with the woman in the grove north of the house the night before.

Henry had a certainty as to her identity--a certainty which he could not explain to himself, but which was none the less fixed.
No suspicion of Horace, as far as the murder was concerned--if murder it was--was in his mind, but he did entertain a suspicion of another sort: of some possibly guilty secret which might have led to the tragedy.

"I couldn't feel worse if he was my own son," he thought.

He wished desperately that he had gone out in the grove and interrupted the interview.