It was about half-past eleven that same night, and Cicely Dupuy, still fully dressed, flew from her bedroom out into the hall.
Seeing a light downstairs, and hearing the servants’ bells, one after another, as if rung by a frantic hand, she hesitated a moment only, and then ran downstairs.
In the lower hall Schuyler Carleton, with a dazed expression on his white, drawn face, was uncertainly pushing various electric buttons which, in turn, flashed lights on or off, or rang bells in distant parts of the house.
For a moment Cicely stared straight at the man. Their eyes met, their gaze seemed to concentrate, and they stood motionless, as if spellbound.
This crisis was broken in upon by Marie, Madeleine’s French maid, who came running downstairs in a hastily donned negligée.
“Mon Dieu!” she cried. “Ou est Mademoiselle?”
With a start, Carleton turned from Cicely, and still with that dazed look on his face, he motioned Marie toward the wide doorway of the library. The girl took a step toward the threshold, and then, with a shriek, paused, and ventured no further.
Cicely, as if impelled by an unseen force, slowly turned and followed Marie’s movements, and as the girl screamed, Cicely grasped her tightly by the arm, and the two stood staring in at the library door.
What they saw was Madeleine Van Norman, seated in a chair at the library table. Her right arm was on the table, and her head, which had fallen to one side, was supported by her right shoulder. Her eyes were partly closed, and her lips were parted, and the position of the rigid figure left no need for further evidence that this was not a natural sleep.
But further evidence there was. Miss Van Norman still wore her yellow satin gown, but the beautiful embroidered bodice was stained a dull red, and a crimson stream was even then spreading its way down the shimmering breadths of the trailing skirt.