"Yes, my lord. There's been a burglary; the safe, the safe in his lordship's dressing-room, has been broken into. Jenkins found his lordship lying on the ground—there was blood——"
The man's voice had risen by this time and it brought Miriam to the door. She looked from one to the other, the nameless terror she felt showing in her eyes.
"What is it?" she demanded.
"Go—go away, Miriam," said Heyton, hoarsely. "Go back to your own room."
Disregarding his injunctions with a kind of contempt, she advanced and addressed herself to the terror-stricken valet.
"What is it, Simcox?" she asked. "I heard you say——"
"Yes, my lady, it's true," faltered Simcox, wiping the sweat from his face. "I helped Jenkins carry the Marquess into his bedroom. If his lordship isn't dead, he's as good as dead."
Swiftly, without a moment's hesitation, Miriam went past them to the Marquess's bedroom, thrusting her way through a crowd of horrified, gaping servants. The Marquess lay on the bed where they had placed him. The blood had ceased flowing, but it had stained one side of his face, had reddened a greater part of the old-fashioned night-shirt which he wore. He lay quite still, his eyes closed. She stood and looked at him, frozen with horror; then she became conscious that her husband was standing beside her.
"Is he dead?" she asked, almost inaudibly. "Who—who has done this?"
At the question, he drew back a little, and lifted his eyes from the reddened face to hers.