Harry sagged to the floor like a sack of flour and lay motionless on his face, his arms and legs spread out like a spider's.
I was bending down to turn him over, when I heard my father's voice on the other side of the door.
"Stand back! I'll see to this," he cried, evidently addressing the frightened servants.
I turned round. The door swung on its immense hinges and my father stood there, with staring eyes and pallid face, taking in the situation deliberately, looking from me to Harry's inert body beside which I knelt. Slowly he came into the centre of the room.
Full of anxiety, I looked at him. But there was no opening in that stern, old face for any explanations. He did not assail me with a torrent of words nor did he burst into a paroxysm of grief and anger. His every action was calculated, methodical, remorseless.
He turned to the open door.
"Go!" he commanded sternly. "Leave us,—leave Brammerton. I never wish to see you again. You are no son of mine."
His words seared into me. I held out my hands.
"Go!" he repeated quietly, but, if anything, more firmly.
"Good God! father,—won't you hear what I have to say in explanation?" I cried in vexatious desperation.