"Is it quite impossible for you to tell me the reason of it all?" James asked, after a moment's hesitation.
"Well, I have been thinking it over," said his father, "and I have come to the conclusion that perhaps it would be better, much as it will pain you, to let you know the truth. But not to-night, dear lad. Let it stand over, and I will tell you everything to-morrow. Now good-night."
They shook hands according to custom, and then departed to their respective rooms.
Next morning James was about early. He visited the Stables and the Home Farm, looked in at the kennels, and was back again at the home some three-quarters of an hour before breakfast. As he crossed the hall to ascend the stairs, in order to go to his own room, he met Wilkins coming down, his face white as death.
"My God, sir," he said hoarsely, "for mercy's sake come upstairs to your father's room."
"What is the matter with him?" cried James, realising from the butler's manner that something terrible had happened.
But Wilkins did not answer. He only led the way upstairs. Together they proceeded along the corridor and entered the Squire's bedroom. There they saw a sight that James will never forget as long as he lives. His father lay stretched out upon the bed, dead. His eyes were open, and stared horribly at the ceiling, while his hands were clenched, and on either side of his throat were discoloured patches.
These told their own tale.
William Standerton had been strangled.