For answer, Landon conducted him inside the hall, and in an instant Varian was on his knees beside the stricken man.
“My God!” he said, in a hoarse whisper, “Frederick’s dead!”
“A stroke?” asked Landon, while Claire Blackwood stood by, unable to speak at all.
“No, man, no! Shot! See the blood,—shot through the heart. What does it—what can it mean? Where’s Betty?”
“We don’t know,” Claire spoke now. “Doctor Varian, are you sure he’s dead? Can nothing be done to save him?”
“Nothing. He died almost instantly, from internal hemorrhage. But how unbelievable! How impossible!”
“Who shot him?” Landon burst out, impetuously; “or,—is it suicide?”
“Where’s the pistol?” said the doctor, looking about.
Both men searched, Landon trying to overcome his repugnance to such close association with the dead, but no weapon of any sort could be found.
“I—I can’t see it,——” Varian wiped his perspiring brow. “I can’t see any solution. But, this won’t do. We must get the others up here. Oh, heavens, what shall we do with Minna?”