Rushing down to the gate of the lawn, I reached it just as our visitor dashed it open and fell into my arms. I could see in the moonlight that it was none other than Mordaunt Heatherstone.
“What has happened?” I cried. “What is amiss, Mordaunt?”
“My father!” he gasped—“my father!”
His hat was gone, his eyes dilated with terror, and his face as bloodless as that of a corpse. I could feel that the hands which clasped my arms were quivering and shaking with emotion.
“You are exhausted,” I said, leading him into the parlour. “Give yourself a moment's rest before you speak to us. Be calm, man, you are with your best friends.”
I laid him on the old horsehair sofa, while Esther, whose fears had all flown to the winds now that something practical was to be done, dashed some brandy into a tumbler and brought it to him. The stimulant had a marvellous effect upon him, for the colour began to come back into his pale cheeks and the light of recognition in his eyes.
He sat up and took Esther's hand in both of his, like a man who is waking out of some bad dream and wishes to assure himself that he is really in safety.
“Your father?” I asked. “What of him?”
“He is gone.”
“Gone!”