The mother and son had not returned, at any rate, yet.
As the two men entered, the hall was full of scared domestics, talking in undertones, and feeding on the occasional bulletin which the privileged Raffles was permitted to carry from the sick-room to the outer world.
At the sight of the doctor and Mr Armstrong, they sneaked off grudgingly to their own territories, leaving Raffles to escort the gentlemen to the scene of the tragedy.
Old Roger Ingleton lay on the sofa, with eyes half-closed, upturned to the ceiling; alive still, but no more.

Cups and wine-glasses on the table near told of the housekeeper's fruitless experiments at restoration, and the inflamed countenance of that ministering angel herself spoke ominously of the four hours during which the sufferer's comfort had been under her charge.
The tutor, after satisfying himself that his mission had not been too late, retired to the fireplace, where he leaned dismally, and watched through his eye-glass the doctor's examination.
After a few minutes, the latter walked across to him.
"Did you say Mrs Ingleton and the boy will not be back till the morning ?" "Probably not." "If so, they will be too late; he will not last the night." "I will fetch them," said Mr Armstrong quietly.
"Good fellow! you are having a night of it.

I shall remain here; so you can take whichever of my horses you like.

The mare will go best." "Thanks!" said the tutor, pulling himself together for this new task.
Before he quitted the room, he stepped up to the couch and bent for a moment over the helpless form of his employer.

There was no recognition in the glazed eyes, and the hand, which he just touched with his own, was nerveless and dead already.
With a silent nod to the doctor Mr Armstrong left the room, and was presently once more ploughing on horseback through the deep snow.
It was well this man was a man of iron and master of himself, or he might have flagged under this new effort, with the distressing prospect awaiting him at his journey's end.
As it was, he urged doggedly forward, forgetful of the existence of such an individual as Frank Armstrong, and dwelling only on the dying man behind and the mourners ahead.
The clock was chiming one in Castleridge Church when at length he reined up his spent horse at the stable entrance to the Grange.