“You heathen!” Lockwood exclaimed, scornfully, and himself dashed out at the front door and around to the side of the house.
Mrs. Peyton started to follow, but the secretary bade her go back lest she take cold.
He reached the French window only to find it locked on the inside. He could not see in through its curtained panes, and impulsively he raised his foot and kicked through the glass at a point high enough to allow of his putting in a hand and turning back the latch.
He went into the room, and after the briefest glance at the man by the desk he went on and unbolted the door to the hall.
Helen had joined her mother and Ito, and the three stood cowering on the threshold.
“He is dead,” Gordon Lockwood said, in a calm, unemotional way. “But not by a stroke—he has killed himself.”
“How do you know?” Mrs. Peyton cried, her eyes staring and her face white.
“Go away, Helen,” Lockwood said; “go back into the living-room, and stay away.”
And willingly the girl obeyed.
“Come in, Mrs. Peyton,” Lockwood went on. “You must see him, though it will shock you. See, the flow of blood is dreadful. He stabbed or shot himself.”