At last he was free from the horrors of that strange house—Durley Dene—and Laurence Carrington felt that for the moment he could breathe again. Then he remembered the cause of his hasty departure from Doctor Meadows' handsome sitting-room.
Running like mad down the dark drive and up the avenue that led to his home, he at length reached the front door of the Manse, opened it with his latch-key, and passed through at the height of his speed.
No one was about. The passages were deserted. But from upstairs came the sound of loud weeping. He leaped up the staircase, never stopping until he reached the Squire's bedroom, the door of which was open.
On the floor just inside the room sat Mrs. Knox crying loudly. A female servant stood by her in an equally hysterical state.
Laurence brushed past them, entered the room, and approached the old-fashioned bed, round which stood the butler, the housekeeper, and Lena.
On the bed, fully dressed, lay the body of his father, the Squire, stretched out in death. The face was a ghastly colour—a slaty shade of blue. The veins in it stood out like strips of whalebone. The chest protruded in an unnatural manner. The eyes were yet half opened. The fingers clutched tightly at the bedclothes. There was no sign that any breath remained in the old gentleman's body.
"Have you sent for Bathurst?" Laurence asked hoarsely, addressing the butler.
"Yes, sir, I sent Head for the doctor and expect him every moment, but I'm afeard it's all up with the master. He was dead when I found him."
"Silence! He is not dead—he cannot be dead." And Laurence threw himself on his knees beside the bed, and laid his hand gently over his father's heart. But there was no perceptible movement.
The doctor, a big, powerful-looking man in a tweed suit, entered the room a moment later.