The secretary obeyed; Sir John took it with the tips of his fingers and laid it on the bare table in front of him. “You may go now—Melville,” he said. “I shall start by daybreak, but alone—I shall see you in London to-morrow evening—you may come again presently and help me to undress—” “Yes, Sir John.” The secretary moved to the door and there stopped, struck by something utterly tragic and forlorn in the figure of the man he was leaving. The Master of Stair was leaning back with his head uplifted against the stiff black back of his chair, his hands lay slackly on the arms and his eyes were set and vacant: “Sir John,” said the secretary timidly. “Will you not go to bed?” “No,” said the Master of Stair, without moving, “No.” Still Melville lingered. “You look tired, Sir John,” he ventured. “Why should you care?” was the answer. “Take your own rest, Melville.” The secretary came back into the room. “Sir, as you ride to London so early, it would be better if you slept.” Sir John sat up and looked at the speaker with wide eyes. “If I might choose I would never sleep again,” he said. “And I would never see the dark.” He gave a short laugh and took up his wife’s letter; there was a little pause; the secretary waited, ill at ease. “Melville—” the Master of Stair spoke abruptly, “when did my sister die?” A little painful silence, then the secretary answered awkwardly: “It was before I came to you, Sir John, about twenty years ago, I think.” Sir John turned the unopened letter over in his hands. “It seems longer,” he said gloomily. “’Tis an old tale now—but I had it flung in my face to-day—that—and other things. I thought I had forgotten—but I remember now that I can never bear to open a door that resists—for fear—for fear of seeing again what I saw then. When I thrust open that resisting door and saw her murdered bridegroom across the threshold—and her eyes blinking at me over it—Melville, her mad eyes—that looked as I have seen mine—” He dashed his hand on the table and his black brows contracted into a frown of agony; his was the fierce pride that disdains control and restraint; he was reckless of the watching curiosity of the other man. “Why did that wench remind me?” he cried bitterly. “I hear Janet’s scream again—and see over her bare arm the—faugh! these things are not terrible to hear, Melville; they are easily told—but when you _see_ them—by God! when you _see_ them—I think you do not forget.” He lifted his wild, blue eyes with something almost like appeal in them. “It makes a tale for common folk to mouth,” he said. “Can nothing be buried too deep for spite to unearth it? Twenty years ago! I remember I wore my first sword that day—cursed—what sins have we done to be so cursed? Melville—you were there when they brought my dead son home—” He leaned across the table and his voice sank. “Tell me,” he said hoarsely, “did he not look terrible?” Melville shrank away. “Sir,” he faltered, “no more than any dead who die so.”