Old Lanscomb was staggering from room to room raising the blinds. From time to time, he looked out the windows, half-closing his aged eyes. They would soon return from the funeral. So, he began to walk a little faster. There were too many windows. Enderby Hall was a huge Victorian Gothic-style building. The curtains in the rooms were made of rich but faded brocade or velvet. Some walls were still covered with faded silk. In the green sitting room, the elderly butler looked at the portrait above the fireplace frame of Cornelius Abernathy, who had built Enderby Hall. Abernathy’s brown beard stood out prominently, and his hand rested on a globe, either by his own wish or by the symbolic pride of the creator – no one could say for sure. A man with a very stern appearance, old Lanscomb always thought, and he considered himself lucky never to have met him personally. His master was Mr. Richard. Mr. Richard was a good employer. And they lost him so suddenly, even though the doctor had been monitoring him for quite some time. Ah, but the master never recovered from the shock caused by the death of young Mr. Mortimer. Lanscomb shook his head and hurriedly passed through an intermediate door leading to the White
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