Then the front door banged with a crash.
The others followed more slowly, stepping gently in the presence of Death, past the little lamps, hardly bigger than fireflies, which flickered feebly in their alcoves.

They went into the front room, where a table lamp gave forth a subdued light.

Mrs.Pendleton turned up the wick and sank into a chair, covering her face with her hands.
It was the room where only that afternoon Robert Turold had unfolded the history of his life's quest: a large gloomy room with heavy old furniture, faded prints of the Cornish coast, and a whitefaced clock on the mantel-piece with a loud clucking tick.

Dr.Ravenshaw knew the room well, but Robert Turold's sister had seen it for the first time that day, and the recollection of what had taken place there was so fresh in her memory that it brought a flood of tears.
"Poor Bob!" she sobbed.

"He denied himself all his life for the sake of the title, and what's the good of it all--now ?" That was the only light in which she was able to see the tragedy in the first moment of the shock.