"Yes; it was a sudden attack—I think it must have been a stroke. Oh, Greta, what is it?"—for Miss Williams had suddenly risen from her seat with a startled exclamation and was gazing with wide, frightened eyes and parted lips into the shadowy corner behind her.
The next moment Robert Barton came forward into the firelight, with his pale face and fair, dishevelled hair. He looked almost like a ghost of himself, but Greta, with a little cry, held out her hand to him.
"Alwyn, it is you; but how you startled me! Why did you stand there in that silent, ghostly fashion?" But as he only looked at her in a dazed way, and made no answer, she turned to Olivia.
"Mrs. Luttrell," she said, piteously, "what does it all mean? Why does he not speak to me, and we are such old friends? Is he ill? He looks dreadful. I should hardly have known him—and yet—and yet—it must be Alwyn."
"Yes, I am Alwyn," returned the young man, in a hollow voice. "But you must not touch me, Greta. I am not worthy to take your hand. I have killed my father!"
CHAPTER XV.
"THEY WERE BOTH TO BLAME."
"It befits a son to be dutiful to his father."—Plautus.
As Alwyn uttered these despairing words Greta shrank back in alarm, but Olivia, with a reassuring smile, put her hand gently on his arm.