To add to my surprise, Mr. Marmaduke was pacing the drawing-room in a yellow night-gown.  He met me with an expression I failed to fathom, and then my eye was held by a letter in his hand.  He cleared his throat.

“Good morning, Richard,” said he, very serious,—­very pompous, I thought.  “I am pleased to see that you are so well out of the deplorable affair of last night.”

I had not looked for gratitude.  In truth, I had done nothing for him, and Chartersea might have exposed him a highwayman for all I cared,—­I had fought for Dolly.  But this attitude astonished me.  I was about to make a tart reply, and then thought better of it.

“Walter, a decanter of wine for Mr. Carvel,” says he to the footman.  Then to me:  “I am rejoiced to hear that Lord Comyn is out of danger.”

I merely stared at him.

“Will you sit?” he continued.  “To speak truth, the Annapolis packet came in last night with news for you.  Knowing that you have not had time to hear from Maryland, I sent for you.”

My brain was in such a state that for the moment I took no meaning from this introduction.  I was conscious only of indignation against him for sending for me, when for all he knew I might have been unable to leave my bed.  Suddenly I jumped from the chair.

“You have heard from Maryland?” I cried.  “Is Mr. Carvel dead?  Oh, tell me, is Mr. Carvel dead?” And I clutched his arm to make him wince.

He nodded, and turned away.  “My dear old friend is no more,” he said.  “Your grandfather passed away on the seventh of last month.”

I sank into a chair and bowed my face, a flood of recollections overwhelming me, a thousand kindnesses of my grandfather coming to mind.  One comfort alone stood forth, even had I gone home with John Paul, I had missed him.  But that he should have died alone with Grafton brought the tears brimming to my eyes.  I had thought to be there to receive his last words and blessing, to watch over him, and to Smooth his pillow.  Who had he else in the world to bear him affection on his death-bed?  The imagination of that scene drove me mad.

Mr. Manners aroused me by a touch, and I looked up quickly.  So quickly that I surprised the trace of a smile about his weak mouth.  Were I to die to-morrow, I would swear to this on the Evangels.  Nor was it the smile which compels itself upon the weak in serious moments.  Nay, there was in it something malicious.  And Mr. Manners could not even act.

“There is more, Richard,” he was saying; “there is worse to come.  Can you bear it?”

His words and look roused me from my sorrow.  I have ever been short of temper with those I disliked, and (alas!) with my friends also.  And now all my pent-up wrath against this little man broke forth.  I divined his meaning, and forgot that he was Dorothy’s father.

“Worse?” I shouted, while he gave back in his alarm.  “Do you mean that Grafton has got possession of the estate?  Is that what you mean, sir?”