Martin hovered about them, anticipating their every want, and when at last they left the dining-room they resumed the discontinued custom, and decided to have their coffee brought to them on the houseboat. It seemed to mark the closing of a tragedy and the resumption of the pleasant routine of their country life.
And as on that evening—which now seemed so long ago—when the last of the guests, summoned to congratulate them on their betrothal, had departed, and Sir Geoffrey and Mrs. Austen joined Ralph and Gwendolen, so now the sound of music was borne to them from other houseboats on the river, so now a stray punt was poled swiftly down the stream, and the swans floated out from their nooks under the willows and rocked gracefully in its wake. Everything goes on just the same, although the best and greatest of us die.
Mrs. Austen was dozing comfortably in her chair, and Ralph sat close to Gwendolen, smoking in perfect content. Both were seeing visions of the future, a future of unbroken peace and happiness spent in each other's company, and the interruption of their waking dream by the sound of footsteps coming on board was not unwelcome, as it only suggested another little touch in the picture of material prosperity of which they themselves furnished the human interest.
Martin deposited his tray in the kitchen in the tender, and came up to Ralph.
"May I speak to you for a moment, sir?" he said almost in a whisper.
Ralph looked up surprised.
"What is it, Martin? Anything the matter?"
"I should like to speak to you alone, sir, if I may."
Martin followed him to the top of the ladder.
"A gentleman has come—in connection with the murder," he said, an odd look of embarrassment upon his face, "and he says he must see you at once; he won't be denied."