Some one silenced the band, and the whole assemblage became instantly mute.
Lord Cecil raised the motionless form in his arms—it seemed to weigh nothing to him, so thin and emaciated was it—and, through a lane of horrified spectators, carried him up the broad stairs, and into his bedroom.
Three persons followed him—Lady Grace, Spenser Churchill and the marquis’ valet—and entered the room with him.
Lord Cecil laid his frail burden on the bed, and the valet quickly unfastened the old-fashioned cravat.
“It is a fit, my lord!” he murmured, agitatedly. “I expected it! I have been watching him from one of the doorways. His face was so white, and—and strained—like——”
“Go for a doctor,” said Lord Cecil, quietly. “Grace, go down, and get rid of these people.”
“Oh! come with me, Cecil!” she said, brokenly; “I—I shall break down!”
“Yes, go with her,” said Spenser Churchill. “You need not be more than a few minutes, and I’ll stay here with him.”
Reluctantly, Cecil drew his arm within hers, and left Spenser Churchill alone with the unconscious man.
Alone with him!