"What do you know of this?" repeated Gore, wondering at her silence.
She gave a gasp. "He is dead," said Mrs. Gilroy. "I wonder if he died hard. He was a strong old man."
Wondering more than ever at this strange speech, Bernard felt the pulse and the heart of his grandfather. There was no doubt that life was extinct, although it could not have been so long. The skin was still warm to the touch, but that might have been because the room was heated. Also, the dead man was seated close to the fire. "How terrible!" muttered Bernard, whose emotions were not yet under control. "I must get help."
He turned to go, but the housekeeper, suddenly becoming endowed with life, flung herself in his path. "No!" she said harshly. "Don't seek help if you value your life."
"What do you mean?" asked Gore, striving to shake off the hand she laid on his sleeve. "The servants are up—a policeman is evidently coming along. Hark! he is entering the hall. I must—"
"You go to the gallow," muttered Mrs. Gilroy clinging to him.
"I!" the perspiration burst out on Bernard's forehead, and he started back. "Are you mad?"
"You are, you are," went on the housekeeper, hurriedly, "you fool! It is known that your grandfather disinherited you, and—"
"You know I did not commit this crime."
"I know nothing. I—I" Mrs. Gilroy put her hand to her head. "It's the only way—the only way," she whispered to herself. "You killed him, you strangled him. I swear to it—I swear to it! Help!" she raised her voice to scream. "Help!"