For over Ralph Ravenspur hung the shadow of disgrace—a disgrace he had tried to shift on to the shoulders of his dead brother Charles, Marion's father. Of that dark business none knew the truth but the head of the family. For twenty years he had never mentioned his erring son's name.
"It is to be hoped that Ralph is dead," he said harshly.
A somber light gleamed in his eyes. Vera glanced at him half timidly. But she knew how deeply her grandfather loved her, and this gave her courage to proceed. "I don't like to hear you talk like that," she said. "It is no time to be harsh or hard on anybody. I don't know what he did, but I have always been sorry for Uncle Ralph. And something tells me he is coming home again. Grandfather, you would not turn him away?"
"If he were ill, if he were dying, if he suffered from some grave physical affliction, perhaps not. Otherwise——"
Ravenspur ceased to talk. The brooding look was still in his eyes; his white head was bent low on his breast.
Marion's white fingers touched his hand caressingly. The deepest bond of sympathy existed between these two. And at the smile in Marion's eye Ravenspur's face cleared.
"You would do all that is good and kind," Marion said. "You cannot deceive me: oh, I know you too well for that. And if Uncle Ralph came now!"
Marion paused, and the whole group looked one to the other with startled eyes. With nerves strung tightly like theirs, the slightest deviation from the established order of things was followed by a feeling of dread and alarm. And now, on the heavy silence of the night, the great bell gave clamorous and brazen tongue.
Ravenspur started to his feet.
"Strange that anyone should come at this time of night," he said. "No, Gordon, I will go. There can be no danger, for this is tangible."