THE MORNING AFTER
After breakfast disastrous news came from two quarters, and concerned both Don Pablo and Julian Hardwick. While the Squire, his daughter and his guest were ending their meal, the housekeeper rushed into the room with an agitated face to announce evil. Like all her class she was delighted to be the bearer of bad tidings, and counted upon making a sensation, which she assuredly did. Enistor had scarcely raised his eyebrows at her unceremonious entry when she burst into voluble speech.
"Oh! sir: oh! miss, here's dreadful goings on. That poor young gentleman who painted pictures is dead and gone."
"I thought he would die," said Alice, with a sob. "He had no strength when I left him last night. Oh! poor Julian: poor Julian."
"But that ain't the worst, miss. Señor Narvaez is murdered!"
Enistor started to his feet and overturned his chair. He could not believe his ears. "Murdered! Don Pablo! Be careful what you say."
"I am careful, sir," cried the housekeeper resentfully. "He's as dead as a doornail, lying outside his cottage with a broken neck. Mrs. Boyce as looked after him came on the corpse this morning, and is now in the kitchen crying dreadful and exhausted, as she well may be, having rushed across the moor at her age to tell of the wicked crime."
"But is it a crime?" asked Alice, deadly pale and anxious.
"For sure, miss. Men don't break their own necks."
"Who killed him?" demanded Montrose sharply.