"Lord Radclyffe," she reiterated, and the deep notes of her contralto voice quivered with the poignancy of her emotion, "Luke is in very great danger, the gravest possible danger that can befall any man. Do you understand me?"
Again no reply. But the great eyes—sunken and glassy—slowly fell from the picture to her face.
"Luke," she repeated, dwelling on the word, "I must speak to you about Luke."
And the lips, stiff and cold, opened slightly and from between them escaped the word, feebly, like the breath of a dying man:
"Luke!"
"He is in grave danger. Lord Radclyffe," she said slowly, "in danger of death."
And this time the faded lips framed the word distinctly:
"Luke—in danger of death!"
The hands which had lain on the quilt up to now, still and waxen as those of a lifeless image, began to tremble visibly, and the eyes—those great, hollow eyes—had a searching, anxious expression in them now.
"Philip de Mountford has been murdered," said Louisa. "You knew that, did you not?"