“She was very high, poor thing!—high and proud, but as generous and kind a lady as ever lived. So beautiful, too, with a queer sort of way with her! She never spoke an unkind word to any of us in her life.”
He heard nothing but praises of her. Decidedly, in all that large household Lady Clarice had no enemy. He inquired all about her friends, and he left no stone unturned; but, for once in his life, Sergeant Hewson was baffled, and the fact did not please him.
CHAPTER IV.
KENELM EYRLE.
It was the night before the funeral, and Sir Ronald sat in his study alone. His servants spoke of him in lowered voices, for since the terrible day of the murder the master of Aldenmere had hardly tasted food. More than once he had rung the bell, and, when it was answered, with white lips and stone-cold face, he had asked for a tumbler of brandy.
It was past ten o’clock now, and the silent gloom seemed to gather in intensity, when suddenly there came a fierce ring at the hall door, so fierce, so imperative, so vehement that one and all the frightened servants sprang up, and the old housekeeper, with folded hands, prayed, “Lord have mercy on us!”
Two of the men went, wondering who it was, and what was wanted.
“Not a very decent way to ring, with one lying dead in the house,” said one to the other; but, even before they reached the hall door, it was repeated more imperatively than before.
They opened it quickly. There stood a gentleman who had evidently ridden hard, for his horse was covered with foam; he had dismounted in order to ring.
“Is this horrible, accursed story true?” he asked, in a loud, ringing voice. “Is Lady Alden dead?”
“It is quite true, sir,” replied one of the men, quick to recognize the true aristocrat.