But Michael did not want explanations.
His grandfather was dying and had asked for him. That was enough.
Instinct and canine sympathy brought Comrade with drooping tail and ears at his heels.
In the great, wainscotted bedroom, with its huge, four-poster bed and dark hangings, Sir Henry Berrington lay dying.
It was very gloomy, that room, and though lights flared in the silver candlesticks on the table and mantel-shelf, yet there were shadows—heavy shadows.
Shadows too under the tired old eyes; but there was no fear in the latter.
A true Berrington feared only one thing—dishonour.
Poor Sir Henry. Was it that ghost which haunted him even now!
A strong, lean hand was gently drawing back the bed curtain.
"Ah, Michael."