A terrible scream rang through the room, and echoed through the house. Mr. Thurwell and several of the servants came hurrying in. In the middle of the floor Rachel Kynaston lay prostrate, her fingers grasping convulsively at the empty air, and an awful look in her face. Helen was on her knees by her side, and Mr. Brown stood in the background, irresolute whether to stay or leave.
They crowded round her, but she waved them off, and grasping Helen's wrist, dragged her down till their heads nearly touched.
"Helen," she moaned, "I am dying. Swear to me that you will avenge Geoffrey's murder. That man did it. His name—his name——"
Suddenly her grasp relaxed, and Helen reeled back fainting into her father's arms.
"It is a fit," some one murmured.
But it was death.
CHAPTER XI
LEVY & SON, PRIVATE AGENTS
"Anything in the letters, guv'nor?"