Involuntarily he thought of the frenzied cry of Shakespeare's "Lear" over the dead body of Cordelia:-- "What! Shall a dog, a horse, a rat, have life And thou no breath at all!" What curious caprice of destiny was it that saved the life of a dog, yet robbed a father of his child?
Who could explain it?
Why should a happy innocent little lad like Tom o' the Gleam's "Kiddie" have been hurled out of existence in a moment as it were by the mad speed of a motor's wheels,--and a fragile "toy" terrier, the mere whim of dog-breeders and plaything for fanciful women, be plucked from starvation and death as though the great forces of creation deemed it more worth cherishing than a human being! For the murder of Lord Wrotham, Helmsley found excuse,--for the death of Tom there was ample natural cause,--but for the wanton killing of a little child no reason could justly be assigned.
Propping his elbows on his knees, and resting his aching head on his hands, he thought and thought,--till Thought became almost as a fire in his brain.

What was the use of life?
he asked himself.

What definite plan or object could there possibly be in the perpetuation of the human race?
"To pace the same dull round On each recurring day, For seventy years or more Till strength and hope decay,-- To trust,--and be deceived,-- And standing,--fear to fall! To find no resting-place-- _Can this be all ?_" Beginning with hope and eagerness, and having confidence in the good faith of his fellow-men, had he not himself fought a hard fight in the world, setting before him a certain goal,--a goal which he had won and passed,--to what purpose?
In youth he had been very poor,--and poverty had served him as a spur to ambition.

In middle life he had become one of the richest men in the world.

He had done all that rich and ambitious men set themselves out to do.