Griggs had gone straight to the bedroom door of his mistress. She was asleep. Her husband’s room, being separated from hers by a bathroom, a dressing-room, a boudoir, and two closed doors, not a sound of the tragedy had reached her.
“Something of the utmost importance, madam,” called Griggs, rapping sharply and rousing her.
“Come in,” she said sleepily.
The butler entered, and stood for a moment immovable as a statue before her.
“Madam,” said he, “I have come to you with bad news—with terrible news, madam.”
She sat bolt upright in bed. His words and manner awakened her as if she had been struck with a whip. She stared at him wide-eyed, with compressed lips.
“Well?” she breathed tensely.
“Mr. Van Cortlandt is dead.”
Griggs saw her clutch at the lace coverlet. She did not utter a sound.
“He has shot himself, madam.”