Percival went immediately. The Old Manor had the deserted aspect he remembered when, as a little boy, he used to seek Mr. Amber in the library; and it was to the library he now was taken. Mr. Amber had been carried there. He knew he was to die. He had begged to die in the apartment he loved--among his books. There Percival found him. He lay on a bed that had been placed in the centre of the room. He was asleep, breathing with a harsh, unnatural sound. A nurse sent over from Great Letham attended him, and Percival inquired of her: "I am Percival; has he been asking for me?" She shook her head: "Since this morning only for Lord Burdon. Before that, frequently." Percival went on one knee by the bedside. The mild old face that he had always known silvery and smiling seemed white as the pillow where it lay, pathetically lined and hollowed. On a sudden the eyes very slowly opened and looked full into Percival's bending above him. Percival experienced a shock of horror at what followed. Burning intelligence flamed into the dim eyes; the blood rushed in a crimson cloud to the white face; the thin form struggled where it lay. "My lord! my lord!" Mr. Amber whispered; and "lift me--lying down before my lord!" "Mr. Amber! I am Percival! You remember me!" The nurse raised him, and with practised hand the pillows also, so that he reclined against them. "It is your friend Percival. Lord Burdon will soon come, perhaps." He gave her no attention. He smiled at Percival in something of his mild old way. "We are very weak, my lord," he said. "Very weak." "Mr. Amber! I am Percival! You remember what friends we were. You will get strong, and we will have some more reading together--you remember?" Mr. Amber still smiling, his eyes closed again. "On the ladders." "Yes--yes. On the ladders. You remember now--Percival." Mr. Amber's smile seemed to settle upon his face as though his lips were made so. "Hold my hand, my lord."