He waited until Lady Grace and Lord Cecil had left the room; then, scarcely looking at the white, distorted face, he searched the pockets of the helpless man, and with a suppressed cry of satisfaction, darted to the cabinet, got the keys and opened the safe.
Taking out two deeds engrossed, “The last will and testament of the Marquis of Stoyle,” he thrust one in the breast pocket of his coat and replaced the other in the safe, and locked it, and returned the keys to the cabinet.
Scarcely had he done so, and taken his place at the bedside, than Lord Cecil and the valet hurried in with a doctor, who had been one of the guests.
He bent over the unconscious marquis and made his examination.
“Is he? Oh, don’t say that my dear friend is dead?” exclaimed Spenser Churchill, with a sob.
Lord Cecil waited for the answer in silent horror.
“No, no, he is not dead! Open that window!” said the doctor. “It is a fit produced by sudden excitement.”
“Thank Heaven!” murmured Spenser Churchill, devoutly. “And will he recover, doctor?”
The doctor looked grave.
“I cannot say. If he should——” He hesitated, and looked at Lord Cecil. “It is a very serious case, my lord; a sudden collapse. The unusual excitement has been too much for his lordship. He may recover, but if he should”—he stopped, and touched his forehead—“I fear it will be a bodily and not mental recovery.”