Shadow in the House

In the rococo reception-room its recent owner still held the center of the stage, that dominance now one of arresting tragedy rather than of personality. He lay flat on his back, limp and motionless, cushioned in the pile of his own rich carpet. The glare of many bulbs from a gilt chandelier betrayed without mercy the heavy, self-indulgent, slightly distorted features. Death had robbed Harrison’s face of its dynamic vitality without lending it the dignity of peace.