“He can come to the library at once,” Dominey directed; “that is, if you are ready for your coffee, Mangan.”

“Indeed I am,” the lawyer assented, rising.  “A great treat, that wine.  One thing the London restaurants can’t give us.  Port should never be drunk away from the place where it was laid down.”

The two men made their way across the very fine hall, the walls of which had suffered a little through lack of heating, into the library, and seated themselves in easy-chairs before the blazing log fire.  Parkins silently served them with coffee and brandy.  He had scarcely left the room before there was a timid knock and Middleton made his somewhat hesitating entrance.

“Come in and close the door,” Dominey directed.  “What is it, Middleton?  Parkins says you wish to speak to me.”

The man came hesitatingly forward.  He was obviously distressed and uneasy, and found speech difficult.  His face glistened with the rain which had found its way, too, in long streaks down his velveteen coat.  His white hair was wind-tossed and disarranged.

“Bad night,” Dominey remarked.

“It’s to save its being a worse one that I’m here, Squire,” the old man replied hoarsely.  “I’ve come to ask you a favour and to beg you to grant it for your own sake.  You’ll not sleep in the oak room to-night?”

“And why not?” Dominey asked.

“It’s next her ladyship’s.”

“Well?”

The old man was obviously perturbed, but his master, as though of a purpose, refused to help him.  He glanced at Mangan and mumbled to himself.

“Say exactly what you wish to, Middleton,” Dominey invited.  “Mr. Mangan and his father and grandfather have been solicitors to the estate for a great many years.  They know all our family history.”

“I can’t get rightly into touch with you, Squire, and that’s a fact,” Middleton went on despairingly.  “The shape of you seems larger and your voice harder.  I don’t seem to be so near to you as I’d wished, to say what’s in my heart.”

“I have had a rough time Middleton,” Dominey reminded him.  “No wonder I have changed!  Never mind, speak to me just as man to man.”

“It was I who first met you, Squire,” the old man went on, “when you tottered home that night across the park, with your arm hanging helplessly by your side, and the blood streaming down your face and clothes, and the red light in your eyes—­murderous fire, they called it.  I heard her ladyship go into hysterics.  I saw her laugh and sob like a maniac, and, God help us! that’s what she’s been ever since.”

The two men were silent.  Middleton had raised his voice, speaking with fierce excitement.  It was obvious that he had only paused for breath.  He had more to say.

“I was by your side, Squire,” he went on, “when her ladyship caught up the knife and ran at you, and, as you well know, it was I, seizing her from behind, that saved a double tragedy that night, and it was I who went for the doctor the next morning, when she’d stolen into your room in the night and missed your throat by a bare inch.  I heard her call to you, heard her threat.  It was a madwoman’s threat, Squire, but her ladyship is a madwoman at this moment, and with a knife in her hand you’ll never be safe in this house.”