Dr. Larcher came close to the bed, and bending down spoke distinctly and slowly to the dying man.
"You are very ill," he said in a pitying voice. "I hope you have made your peace with heaven."
With a superhuman effort Garsworth raised himself on his elbow, and stretching out his hand pointed to the desk.
"In there," he gasped. "Blake--there."
The effort was too much for him, for with a choking cry he fell back on the bed a corpse.
Nestley, starting to his feet, bent over the bed, and tearing open the squire's shirt, put his hand on his heart--it had ceased to beat.
"He is dead," he said, in a coldly professional manner, "that last effort killed him."
"Dead!" echoed Patience, who was leaning against the curtains with staring eyes and a white terrified face.
"Yes--dead," repeated Dr. Larcher gravely. "We can do no good now," and followed by Reginald and Dick he left the room, wondering in his own heart what the old man had meant by pointing at the desk while pronouncing Blake's name.
The melancholy news was conveyed to the terrified women downstairs, and shortly afterwards everyone departed, leaving the inmates of the Grange alone with its dead master. Una and Miss Cassy, stunned by the suddenness of the event, retired early to bed, and Jellicks, with the help of Patience, laid the corpse out on the bed ready for the undertaker. Nestley went to his own room and solaced himself with brandy; Patience remained by the side of the corpse to watch it during the night, and over all the house there hung a shadow of fear and dread which invested the place with awesome terror.