He closed the window overlooking the creek and turned to cross to those that opened on to the grounds, but as he walked round the table that filled the centre of the room a cry rang from his lips, for prone upon the floor Sir Geoffrey lay, and something in the utter helplessness of the posture of the body told Ralph that he was dead.
"Good God!" he cried, and in an instant dropped on his knees by the side of the still figure, conquering by an immense effort a feeling of positive repugnance against touching death. He felt his uncle's wrist to see if he could detect a pulse, and uttered another exclamation of horror when, on letting go the dead hand, it dropped with a thud upon the floor.
"Uncle Geoffrey!" he called; "Uncle Geoffrey!" but no answer came; there was not a quiver in the lids that bagged over the already glazing eyes.
Perhaps it was his own lack of skill that prevented him from feeling the pulse; there could scarcely be any room for doubt if he felt the heart. Sir Geoffrey was lying on his left side, and Ralph rolled the body on to its back and unfastened the flannel collar. Again the horror of it all shook him, and he turned his head aside as he slipped his hand inside his uncle's shirt. The body was quite warm, and Ralph's pluck was returning with his hope, when his fingers fell upon the little wound and became sticky with blood; in a frenzy of terror he tore open the shirt and forced himself to look. A sob shook his whole frame.
"It is murder! it is murder! Dear God, don't let him be dead!" but the singed flannel, the tiny hole in the centre of a ring of scorched flesh, and the absence of blood in any quantity, told a tale he could not but believe. Yet he must try to recall some glimmer of consciousness before he could leave the old man alone. He poured some brandy into a tumbler, and raising Sir Geoffrey's head put a little into the mouth that lolled open and gave the face an almost idiotic expression; but the brandy merely dribbled out from the corners of the lips, and there was no sign of meaning in the eyes. Not knowing what else to do, Ralph raised Sir Geoffrey's body to lay it on the bamboo couch, but, strong as he was, he only did it with the utmost difficulty, and in making the effort he smeared his sleeves and breast with blood.
"What can I do?" he kept on muttering, and yet, oddly enough, the idea of rushing to the house and sending for the nearest doctor never entered his mind. In a hopeless, incapable way he stared about him, wondering what else he could do to recall the life he yet felt sure had flown, and then, draining the tumbler which he had partly filled, he closed the French windows and went back to his dressing-room. He took off his blood-stained jacket and flung it down by the press, washed the blood from his hands, and found another coat; and then, locking the boat-house door, rushed out into the verandah, and so into the garden, and stumbled to the house.
Going into the library he rang the bell, and strode impatiently up and down until a servant came.
"Where is Martin? I want Martin. Send Martin here at once," he said rapidly to the maid who, to his surprise, appeared in place of the old butler.
She stared at him in astonishment and some dismay, for he was white as death himself, and all his wonted quietness of manner was gone.
"He's only just got back from Longbridge, sir," the maid replied, "and he's in his room changing his clothes; they've all got dripping wet."