The secretary obeyed; Sir John took it with the tips of his fingers and laid it on the bare table in front of him.
“You may go now—Melville,” he said. “I shall start by daybreak, but alone—I shall see you in London to-morrow evening—you may come again presently and help me to undress—”
“Yes, Sir John.”
The secretary moved to the door and there stopped, struck by something utterly tragic and forlorn in the figure of the man he was leaving. The Master of Stair was leaning back with his head uplifted against the stiff black back of his chair, his hands lay slackly on the arms and his eyes were set and vacant:
“Sir John,” said the secretary timidly. “Will you not go to bed?”
“No,” said the Master of Stair, without moving, “No.”
Still Melville lingered.
“You look tired, Sir John,” he ventured.
“Why should you care?” was the answer. “Take your own rest, Melville.”
The secretary came back into the room. “Sir, as you ride to London so early, it would be better if you slept.”