Jim paused before he replied. He knew how upset his father would be at the news he had to impart.
"Father," he said, "I'm afraid I've got some bad news for you. I've been trying to make up my mind whether I should tell you or not."
"Tell me, James," answered the other. "I'll be bound it's not so very bad after all. You've probably been brooding over it, and have magnified its importance."
"I sincerely hope I have. I am afraid not, however. Do you remember the man we saw at Mudrapilla in the Five Mile Paddock, the night before we left? His name was Murbridge."
The shock to William Standerton was every bit as severe as James had feared it would be.
"What of him?" he cried. "You don't mean to say that he is in England?"
"I am sorry to say that he is," Jim returned. "I found him in the Park this evening on his way up to the house."
The elder man turned and walked to the fireplace, where he stood looking into it in silence. Then he faced his son once more.
"What did he say to you?" he enquired at last, his voice shaking with the anxiety he could not control or hide.
"He said that he wanted to see you, and that he would do so if he had to wait at the gates for a year."
"And he will," said Standerton bitterly; "that man will hunt me to my grave. I have been cursed with him for thirty years, and do what I will I cannot throw him off."
James approached his father, and placed his hand upon his shoulder.
"Father," he began, "why won't you let me share your trouble with you?
Surely we should be able to find some way of ridding ourselves of this man?"
"No, there is no way," said Standerton. "He has got a hold upon me that nothing will ever shake off."
"I will not believe, father, that he knows anything to your discredit,"
cried Jim passionately.
"And you are right, my lad," his father replied. "He knows nothing to my discredit. I hope no one else does; but--but there--do not ask any more.
Some day I will tell you the whole miserable story. But not now. You must not ask me. Believe me, dear lad, when I say that it would be better not."
"Then what will you do?"
"See him, and buy him off once more, I suppose. Then I shall have peace for a few months. Do you know where he is staying?"
"At the 'George and Dragon,'" Jim replied.
"Then I must send a note down to him and ask him to come up here," said Standerton. "Now go and dress. Don't trouble yourself about him."
All things considered, the dinner that night could not be described as a success. William Standerton was more silent than usual, and his son almost equalled him. Alice tried hard to cheer them both, but finding her efforts unsuccessful, she also lapsed into silence. A diversion, however, was caused before the meal was at an end. The butler had scarcely completed the circuit of the table with the port, before a piercing scream ran through the building, followed by another, and yet another.
"Good heavens! What's that?" cried Standerton, as he sprang to his feet, and hurried to the door, to be followed by his son and daughter.
"It came from upstairs, sir," said the butler, and immediately hurried up the broad oak staircase two steps at a time. His statement proved to be correct, for, on reaching the gallery that runs round the hall, he found a maid-servant lying on the floor in a dead faint. Jim followed close behind him, and between them they picked the girl up, and carried her down to the hall, where she was laid upon a settee. The housekeeper was summoned, and the usual restoratives applied, but it was some time before her senses returned to her. When she was able to speak, she looked wildly about her, and asked if "_it was gone_?" When later she was able to tell her story more coherently, it was as follows.
In the fulfilment of her usual duties she had gone along the gallery to tidy Miss Standerton's bedroom. She had just finished her work, and was closing the door, when she saw, standing before her, not more than half-a-dozen paces distant, the little hump-backed ghost, of which she had so often heard mention made in the Servants' Hall. It looked at her, pointed its finger at her, and a second later vanished. "She knew now,"
she declared, "that it was all over with her, and that she was going to die. Nothing could save her." Having given utterance to this alarming prophecy, she indulged in a second fit of hysterics, on recovering from which she was removed by the butler and housekeeper to the latter's sitting-room, vowing as she went that she could not sleep in the house, and that she would never know happiness again. Having seen her depart, the others returned to the dining-room, and had just taken their places at the table once more, when there was a ring at the front door bell, and in due course the butler entered with the information that a person "of the name of Murbridge" had called and would be glad to see Mr.
Standerton. James sprang to his feet.
"I told him he was not to come near the place," he said. "Let me go and see him, father."
"No, no, my boy," said Standerton. "I wrote to him before dinner, as I told you I should, telling him to come up to-night. Where is he, Wilkins?"
"In the library, sir," the butler replied.
"Very well. I will see him there."
He accordingly left the room.
A quarter of an hour later James and Alice heard Murbridge's voice in the hall.
"You dare to turn me out of your house?" he was saying, as if in a fit of uncontrollable rage. "You forbid me to speak to your son and daughter, do you?"
"Once and for all, I do," came Standerton's calm voice in reply. "Now leave the house, and never let me see your face again. Wilkins, open the door, and take care that this man is never again admitted to my house."
Murbridge must have gone down the steps, where, as Wilkins asserted later on, he stood shaking his fist at Mr. Standerton.
"Curse you, I'll make you pay for this," he cried. "You think yourself all-powerful because of your wealth, but whatever it costs me, I'll make you smart for the manner in which you've treated me to-night."
Then the door was closed abruptly, and no more was seen of him.
William Standerton's usually rubicund face was very pale when he joined his son and daughter later. It was plain that the interview he had had with Murbridge had upset him more than he cared to admit. Alice did her best to console him, and endeavoured to make him forget it, but her efforts were a failure.
"Poor old dad," she said, when she bade him good-night. "It hurts me to see you so troubled."
"You must not think about it then," was the answer. "I shall be myself again in the morning. Good-night, my girl, and may God bless you."
"God bless you, father," the girl replied earnestly.
"I do wish you'd let me help you," said Jim, when he and his father were alone together. "Why did you not let me interview that man?"
"It would have done no good," Standerton replied. "The fellow was desperate, and he even went so far as to threaten me. Thereupon I lost my temper and ordered him out of the house. I fear we shall have more trouble with him yet."
"Is it quite impossible for you to tell me the reason of it all?" James asked, after a moment's hesitation.
"Well, I have been thinking it over," said his father, "and I have come to the conclusion that perhaps it would be better, much as it will pain you, to let you know the truth. But not to-night, dear lad. Let it stand over, and I will tell you everything to-morrow. Now good-night."
They shook hands according to custom, and then departed to their respective rooms.
Next morning James was about early. He visited the Stables and the Home Farm, looked in at the kennels, and was back again at the home some three-quarters of an hour before breakfast. As he crossed the hall to ascend the stairs, in order to go to his own room, he met Wilkins coming down, his face white as death.
"My God, sir," he said hoarsely, "for mercy's sake come upstairs to your father's room."
"What is the matter with him?" cried James, realising from the butler's manner that something terrible had happened.
But Wilkins did not answer. He only led the way upstairs. Together they proceeded along the corridor and entered the Squire's bedroom. There they saw a sight that James will never forget as long as he lives. His father lay stretched out upon the bed, dead. His eyes were open, and stared horribly at the ceiling, while his hands were clenched, and on either side of his throat were discoloured patches.