Bertram’s hurried ring at his uncle’s door was answered by Samuel the butler.
“What is this I hear?” cried the young man, entering with considerable agitation, “Mrs. Sylvester dead?”
“Yes sir,” returned the old and trusty servant, with something like a sob in his voice. “She went out riding this morning behind a pair of borrowed horses—and being unused to Michael’s way of driving, they ran away and she was thrown from the carriage and instantly killed.”
“And Miss Fairchild?”
“She didn’t go with her. Mrs. Sylvester was alone.”
“Horrible, horrible! Where is my uncle, can I see him?”
“I don’t know, sir,” the man returned with a strange look of anxiety. “Mr. Sylvester is feeling very bad, sir. He has shut himself up in his room and none of his servants dare disturb him, sir.”
“I should, however, like him to know I am here. In what room shall I find him?”
“In the little one, sir, at the top of the house. It has a curious lock on the door; you will know it by that.”