The baron was her slave--at least he said so--and she easily kept him at her beck and call during the first evening.
It would seem that that strange hollow energy of old age had laid its hand upon Sir John Meredith, for he was the first to appear in the breakfast-room the next morning.

He went straight to the sideboard where the letters and newspapers lay in an orderly heap.

It is a question whether he had not come down early on purpose to look for a letter.
Perhaps he could not stay in his bed with the knowledge that the postman had called.

He was possibly afraid to ask his old servant to go down and fetch his letters.
His bent and knotted hands fumbled among the correspondence, and suddenly his twitching lips were still.

A strange stillness indeed overcame his whole face, turning it to stone.