"Yes; but that is not all. She has been—you must bear it bravely, Earle—she has been cruelly murdered!"
He repeated the word with the air of one who did not thoroughly understand.
"Murdered! Doris! You cannot be speaking earnestly. Who could, who would murder her?"
Lord Linleigh saw that he must give him time to realize, to understand, and they both sat in silence for some minutes, that ghastly gray pallor deepening on the young lover's face. Suddenly the true meaning of the words occurred to him, and he buried his face in his hands with a cry that Lord Linleigh never forgot. So they remained for some time; then Lord Linleigh touched him gently.
"Earle," he said, "you have all your life to grieve in. We have two things to do now."
The white lips did not move, but the haggard eyes seemed to ask, "What?"
"We have to bury her and avenge her; we have to find out who murdered her while we slept so near."
The word murder seemed to come home to him then in its full significance; his face flushed, a flame of fire came into his eyes. He clutched the earl's hand as with an iron grasp.
"I was bewildered," he said. "I did not really understand. Do you mean that some one has killed Doris?"
"Yes; she lies in her own room there, with a knife in her white breast. Listen, Earle: I have my own theory, my own idea. I was always most uncomfortable about that staircase; the door opens right into her room. I have so often begged of her to be sure and keep it locked. I fancy that, by some oversight, the door was left open, and some one, intent on stealing her jewelry, perhaps, made his way to her room. She was no coward; she would try to save it; she would, perhaps, defy and exasperate the burglar, and he, in sudden fury, stabbed her; then, frightened at his own deed, he hastened away. There are signs of a struggle in the room, but I cannot say if there is anything missing."