“There is not much fear of that, darling,” he said, laughingly, and pressing a kiss to her lips.
By the time Mr. Hamilton returned from London a room had been put to rights for the valet, the resources of the cottage being taxed to their utmost.
The visit to the metropolis had been successful in every way, and the evening was spent in writing a somewhat lengthy letter to Colonel Greyson, wherein Sir Harold’s arrangements for the immediate future were fully set forth.
It was nearly midnight when Sir Harold retired, and he wished Hamilton an affectionate “Good-night!” saying, “You have overdone yourself to-day. Do not sit up too long.”
“No, Harold; I have a few old papers to destroy. I shall not be many minutes.”
The young man went up to his room, which was directly over the one in which he had left Mr. Hamilton.
For a little while he heard the rustling of papers, then a sudden silence, followed by the opening of a door.
Five—ten minutes passed, and there was not a sound.
Slipping into his clothes again, Sir Harold stepped downstairs, and Mr. Hamilton was apparently asleep. The young man spoke to him, but there was no reply. Then he ran and shook him. The head dropped forward, and one glance revealed that he was dead—the hanging lower jaw, the glazing eyes, filled with unutterable horror, and the stiffening hands.
“My God!” gasped Sir Harold. “Poor Theresa!”