"Tell him I want him at once—at once," said Ralph, and, eyeing him curiously, the girl hurried downstairs.
"Mr. Ralph wants you in the library directly minute," she called to Martin through his door. "He's rarely put out about something. Gracious! there's the bell again."
"Say I'll be up in a minute," Martin called back.
"But I daren't go back," the servant said. "I'm sure something terrible's the matter. He looks as white as white, and spoke to me as never was."
Martin would have delivered himself of a kindly admonition to the girl to mend her manner of speech, but yet another peal of the bell convinced him that something was indeed amiss, and giving a tug at his tie to make it assume some semblance of a bow, he hurried out of his bedroom and up the stairs, putting on his coat and waistcoat as he went.
"Beg your pardon, Mr. Ralph, for keeping you waiting," he began, but a glance at Ralph's face checked the apologies. "What is the matter, sir? Has there been an accident? Miss Gwendolen——?"
"It's Sir Geoffrey," Ralph replied, hoarsely.
"Not dead?" the butler cried, stepping forward with outstretched hands.
"Yes, dead," answered Ralph. "Murdered, foully murdered in his own home."
Martin reeled against the writing table and stared in horror at Ralph. Ralph, in his turn, gave way, and leaning his arm upon the mantelpiece hid his face and ground his teeth to keep back the tears. So they remained in silence, while the tall clock hammered out the seconds of the time that for its owner had ceased to be.