The Ry of Rys sat in his huge armchair, his broad-brimmed hat on his knee
in front of him. One hand rested on the chair-arm, the other clasped the
hat as though he would put it on, but his head was fallen forward on his
breast.

It was a picture of profound repose, but it was the repose of death.
It was evident that the Ry had prepared to leave the house, had felt a
sudden weakness, and had taken to his chair to recover himself. As was
evident from the normal way in which his fingers held his hat, and his
hand rested on the chair-arm, death had come as gently as a beam of
light. With his stick lying on the table beside him, and his hat on his
knee, he was like one who rested a moment before renewing a journey.
There could not have been a pang in his passing. He had gone as most men
wish to go--in the midst of the business of life, doing the usual things,
and so passing into the sphere of Eternity as one would go from this room
to that. Only a few days before had he yielded up his temporary position
as chief constable, and had spent almost every hour since in conference
with Rhodo. What he had planned would never be known to his daughter
now. It was Rhodo himself who had found his master with head bowed
before the Master of all men.

Before Fleda entered the room she knew what awaited her; a merciful
intuition had blunted the shock to her senses. Yet when she saw the Ry
on his throne of death a moan broke from her lips like that of one who
sees for the last time someone indelibly dear, and turns to face strange
paths with uncertain feet. She did not go to the giant figure seated in
the chair. In what she did there was no panic or hysteria of lacerated
heart and shocked sense; she only sank to her knees in the room a few
feet away from him, and looked at him.