The Remingtons had, ever since the fourteenth century, played their part in England’s government: once a great and powerful family, and even to-day a notable and honourable house.
As the car drew up at the door, Raife sprang out, and rushing through the great stone hall, the flags of which were worn hollow by the tread of generations, and where stood the stands of armour of dead Reymingtounes, he came face to face with old Edgson, grave and white-haired.
“Ah, Master Raife!” cried the old man, “I’m so glad you’ve come, sir. Her ladyship is in the boudoir awaiting you.”
“What’s happened, Edgson?” demanded the young man.
“Please don’t ask me, sir. Her ladyship will tell you,” was the old servant’s response, in a half-choked voice, and he turned away.
A few moments later, Raife entered the small, cosy little room, with the high, diamond-pane windows, whereon were stained-glass escutcheons. Two women were there, his mother seated with her face buried in her hands, sobbing bitterly, and, beside her, her faithful companion, an elderly spinster named Miss Holt, who had been in the family for many years and had, indeed, been at school with Lady Remington.
Miss Holt, who was on her knees trying to comfort Raife’s mother, rose as the son entered.
“Mother!” he cried, rushing towards her. “What’s the matter? Tell me—for heaven’s sake! Edgson will tell me nothing.”
But all the response from the agonised woman was a long, low groan.
“Miss Holt,” he said, turning to her companion. “Tell me, what has happened?”