“For the last time,” he said, in a hoarse whisper, “will you swear?”

A struggle passed over his father’s face, now nearly black with pain; and presently from the distended lips, that did not seem to move, there burst a single word—­destined to echo for ever in his son’s ears—­

“Murderer!”

It was his last.  He sank back, groaned, and died; and at the same moment the flame from the pine-chips flickered itself away, and of a sudden the room grew nearly dark.  Philip stood for awhile aghast at his own handiwork, and watched the dull light glance on the dead white of his father’s brow.  He was benumbed by terror at what he had done, and in that awful second of realization would have given his own life to have it undone.

Presently, however, the instinct of self-preservation came to his aid.  He lit a candle, and taking some of the medicine in the glass, smeared it over the dead man’s chin and coat, and then broke the glass on the floor by his side—­thus making it appear that he had died whilst attempting to swallow the medicine.

Next he raised a loud outcry, and violently rang the bell.  In a minute the room was full of startled servants, one of whom was instantly despatched for Mr. Caley, the doctor.  Meanwhile, after a vain attempt to restore animation, the study-table was cleared and the corpse laid on it, as its mother’s had been on that day fifty years before.

Then came a dreadful hush, and the shadow of death came down upon the house and brooded over it.  The men-servants moved to and fro with muffled feet, and the women wept, for in a way they had all loved the imperious old man, and the last change had come very suddenly.  Philip’s brain burned; he was consumed by the desire of action.  Suddenly he bethought him of his wife upstairs:  after what he had just passed through, no scene with her could disturb him—­it would, he even felt, be welcome.  He went up to the room where she was, and entered.  It was evident that she had been told of what had happened, as both she and Pigott, who was undressing her—­for she was wearied out—­were weeping.  She did not appear surprised at his appearance; the shock of the old man’s death extinguished all surprise.  It was he who broke the silence.

“He is dead,” he said.

“Yes, I have heard.”

“If you are at liberty for a few minutes, I wish to talk to you,” he said savagely.

“I, too,” she answered, “have something to say, but I am too weary and upset to say it now.  I will see you to-morrow.”

He turned and went without answering, and Pigott noticed that no kiss or word of endearment passed between them, and that the tone of their words was cold.

Soon after Philip got downstairs the doctor came.  Philip met him in the hall and accompanied him into the study, where the body was.  He made a rapid examination, more as a matter of form than anything else, for his first glance had told him that life was extinct.