The smile passed. His face became grave again. There was Captain Francis Newcombe now—at the far edge of the lawn.
The man was strolling leisurely toward the house, then, suddenly pausing for an instant, he as suddenly broke into a run, elbowing his way unceremoniously through the groups of negroes, and, reaching the steps, covered them in a bound to the verandah.
"I say!" he burst out breathlessly as he halted before Locke. "Whatever is the matter? This hour in the morning and every light on in the house—and all those negroes out there?"
"I've been waiting for you," said Locke quietly. "Come in here." He led the way to the French window by which he had found entry into the house a few hours before, and passed through into the room beyond.
Captain Francis Newcombe followed.
"I say!" he repeated, closing the glass door with a push behind him. "What's up, old man?"
"Mr. Marlin is dead," said Locke briefly.
"Dead!" Captain Francis Newcombe stared incredulously. "Why, he wasn't ill—at least not in that way. I don't understand."
It was a small room, a sort of adjunct to the library which led off from it toward the rear of the house. Howard Locke's fingers were aimlessly turning the leaves of a book which lay on the table in the centre of the room, and beside which he was standing now.
"A belief that he was being followed, that some one was trying to take his money away from him, turned him from a harmless lunatic into a dangerous madman," Locke said slowly. "He seemed to believe that I was, to use his own words, 'one of them,' and he tried to shoot me in my room. The household was aroused. The servants came. We tried to subdue him. But he broke away from us then, and in running down the stairs fell, I think, and his revolver went off in his hand, killing him instantly."