Beatrice, close behind the trembling footman, stood, stunned.
“I knew it was something dreadful!” Blake cried, forgetting in his shock his conventional speech.
Beatrice gave one gasping “Oh!” and covered her face with her hands. But in a moment she nerved herself to the sight, and stared, in a horrified fascination, at the awful scene before her.
At the other end of the long room, in a great, carved armchair, sat Eric Stannard, limp and motionless. From his breast protruded an instrument of some sort, and a small scarlet stain showed on the white expanse of his shirt bosom.
“Is he—is he——” began Beatrice, starting forward to his assistance, when her bewildered eyes took in the rest of the scene.
Behind Stannard, and across the room from one another, were two women. They were Joyce, his wife, and Miss Vernon, a model.
Joyce, only a few feet from her husband’s left shoulder, was glaring at Natalie Vernon, with a wild expression of fear and terror, Natalie was huddled against the opposite wall, near the outer door, cowering and trembling, her hands clutching her throat, as if to suppress an involuntary scream.
Unable to take in this startling scene at a glance, Beatrice and Blake stared at the unbelievable tableau before them. The man got his wits together first.
“We must do something,” he muttered, starting toward his master. “There is some accident——”
As if by this vitalised into action, the two women behind Stannard came forward, one on either side of him, but only his wife went near to him.