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The floor was worn, and creaked with
every step. As Brandon pushed back the heavy door and entered, some bird
in a distant corner flew with a frightened stir across to the window.
Occasionally some one urged that steps should be taken to renovate the
place and make some use of it, but nothing was ever done. Stories
connected with it had faded away; no one now could tell why it was called
the Lucifer Room--and no one cared.
Its dimness and shadowed coloured light suited Brandon to-day. He wanted
to be where no one could see him, where he could gather together the
resistance with which to meet the world. He paced up and down, his hands
behind his back; he fancied that the old saints looked at him with kindly
affection.
And now, for a moment, all his pride and anger were gone, and he could
think of nothing but his love for his son. He had an impulse that almost
moved him to hurry home, to take the next train up to London, to find
Falk, to take him in his arms and forgive him. He saw again and again that
last meeting that they had had, when Falk had kissed him.


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