“I say, Bradfield, you’re not going to let the poor chap go off like that, are you?”
John Bradfield turned upon him savagely.
“Why not? He chose to go. I couldn’t keep the fool against his will, could I?”
“But—but—but d—— it, man, you’re not serious! This fellow helped you when you were a young man, and you turn him out of the house like a dog, on a night like this?”
John Bradfield turned upon him sharply.
“Helped me! Who says he helped me! The man’s a born fool, and never helped anyone, even himself.”
But Mr. Graham-Shute was already at the front door. Before he had time to open it, however, both he and his host were startled by a loud cry of “Help, help!” in Marrable’s voice.
It was John Bradfield’s turn to be excited. Pushing past his cousin, he drew back the handle of the front door, and was out upon the stone steps in time to see dimly a man disappearing in the direction of the east wing. Then he turned his attention to Marrable, who had fallen down the steps, and was lying motionless at the bottom. He was not insensible, however; for John Bradfield had no sooner bent over him with a face full of anxiety which was not tender, than Alfred, struggling to sit up, said, in a hoarse whisper:
“John, I’ve seen a ghost, I swear I have, the ghost of Gilbert Wryde!”