“Who's there?”
“We want you, Mr. Cashel,” said the judge, in an accent which all the instincts of his habit had not rendered free from a slight tremor.
The door was immediately thrown wide, and Roland stood before them. He had not changed his dress since his arrival, and his torn sleeve and blood-stained trousers at once caught every eye that was fixed upon him. The disorder, too, was not confined to his own haggard look; the room itself was littered with papers and letters, with clothes strewn carelessly in every direction; and conspicuously amid all, an open pistol-case was seen, from which one of the weapons was missing. A mass of charred paper lay within the fender, and a great heap of paper lay, as it were, ready for burning, beside the hearth. There was full time for those who stood there to notice all these particulars, since neither spoke, but each gazed on the other in terrible uncertainty. Cashel was the first to break the silence.
“Well, sirs,” said he, in a voice that only an effort made calm, “are my friends so very impatient at my absence that they come to seek me in my dressing-room?”
“The dreadful event that has just occurred, sir,” said the judge, “makes apology for our intrusion unnecessary. We are here from duty, Mr. Cashel, not inclination, still less caprice.”
The solemnity of manner in which he spoke, and the grave faces around him on every side, seemed to apprise Roland that bad tidings awaited him, and he looked eagerly to each for an explanation. At length, as none spoke, he said,—
“Will no one vouchsafe to put an end to this mystification? What, I pray, is this event that has happened?”
“Mr. Kennyfeck has been murdered,” said the judge.