Whither should he go? The front door was bolted and barred; but he supposed that the back door would be open. He never thought of the entrance to the garden by which Brian Luttrell had got into the house. He dashed down the staircase; he was nimbler and lighter-footed than Fane, who was immediately behind him, and he knew the tortuous ways and winding passages of the house, as Fane did not. He gained on his pursuer. Down the dark stone passages he fled: the door into the back premises stood wide open. There was a flight of steep stone steps, which led straight to a kitchen and thence into the yard. He would have time to unbolt the kitchen door, even if it were not already open, for Fane was far, far behind.
But there was no light, and there was a sudden turn in the steps which he had forgotten. Fane reached the head of the staircase in time to hear a cry, a heavy crashing fall, a groan. Then all was still.
CHAPTER LI.
A LAST CONFESSION.
They carried him upstairs again, handling him gently, and trying to discover the extent of his injuries; but they did not guess—until, in the earliest hours of the day, a doctor came from Dunmuir to Netherglen—that Hugo Luttrell's hours on earth were numbered. He had broken his back, and although he might linger in agony for a short time, the inevitable end was near. As the dawn came creeping into the room in which he lay, he opened his eyes, and the watchers saw that he shuddered as he looked round.
"Why have they brought me here?" he said.
No one knew why. It was the nearest and most convenient room for the purpose. Brian had not been by to interpose, or he might have chosen another place. For it was the room to which Richard Luttrell had been carried when they brought him back to Netherglen.
Kitty was beside him, and, with her, Elizabeth, who had come from Dunmuir on hearing of the accident. These two women, knowing as they did the many evil deeds which he had committed, did not refuse him their gentle ministry. When they saw the pain that he suffered, their hearts bled for him. They could, not love him: they could not forgive him for all that he had done; but they pitied him. And most of all they pitied him when they knew that the fiat had gone forth that he must die.
He knew it, too. He knew it from their faces: he had no need to ask. The hopelessness upon his face, the pathetic look of suffering in his eyes, touched even Kitty's heart. She asked him once if she could do anything to help him. They were alone together, and the answer was as unexpected as it was brief: "I want Angela."