"Ah, you don't know! More of this Beresford another time. A bad man, my dear! Now I must look through my letters. Dinner at seven, eh?"
And with a bow, Mr. Schröder descended to his library.
The clock had struck seven, the gong had boomed through the house, and Alice and Barbara were standing at the dining-table; the place at the head being vacant.
"You had better tell your master, Pilkington," said Mrs. Schröder to the great butler; "he is probably in his dressing-room."
The great butler condescended to inform his mistress that he did not think his master had left the libery.
Mrs. Schröder then bade him find his miter, and tell him they were waiting dinner.
The butler left the room, and the next moment came running back, with a face whiter than his own neckcloth. Barbara saw him ere he had crossed the threshold; in an instant she saw that something had happened; and motioning the butler to precede her, walked to the library, followed by Mrs. Schröder.
Fallen prone on his face, across the library-table, lay Mr. Schröder, dead, with an open letter rustling between his stiffening fingers.