"I must go to her," said Earle.
"Nay," replied Lord Linleigh, gently; "the sight will kill you."
"Then let me die—I have nothing to live for now! Oh, my darling! my dear lost love!"
He knelt down on the ground, sobbing like a child. Lord Linleigh stole away gently, leaving him there.
In another five minutes the whole household was aroused, and the dismay, the fear, the consternation could never be told in words.
The servants at first seemed inclined to lose themselves, to wander backward and forward without aim, weeping, wringing their hands, crying out to each other that their lady had been murdered while they slept; but Lord Linleigh pointed out forcibly that some one must have done the deed, and it behooved them to search before the murderer could make good his escape. No one was to enter the room until the detectives had arrived, and men were to mount the fleetest horses, to gallop over to Anderley, and bring the police officers back with them.
Then, when all directions were given, he went back to Earle. He was no coward, but he could not yet face the wife whose only child lay dead. Earle was waiting for him. Terrible as the moment was, he could not help noticing the awful change that had come over that young face: the youth and the brightness had all died from it; it was haggard and restless; he looked up as the earl entered the room.
"Lord Linleigh," he said, and every trace of music had died from his voice, "it was no fancy of mine last night—that sound I heard last night was from Doris: it was her smothered cry for help, perhaps her last sound. Oh, Heaven! if I had but flown when I heard it—flown to her aid! Yet I did go. I went to the very door of her room, and all was perfect silence. Let me go to her—do not be hard upon me—I must look upon the face of my love again."
"So you shall, but not yet."
Lord Linleigh shuddered.