"But what is it? what is it?" said Beauchamp, who followed; "you seem to be very mysterious."
"Why, you see, my lord," replied the landlord, who thought he could not be far wrong in honouring both gentlemen with the same title, "it's an awkward business, and one does not like to say much, but the gentleman's got his throat cut that's certain, and whether he did it himself or whether the lady did it for him seems a question. All I can say is, I saw him sound asleep on the sofa five minutes before she came back. He had a glass of brandy-and-water and two fried eggs just after she went away with attorney Wharton, and seemed quite in his right mind then, only a little tired with sitting up so late last night and getting up so early this morning--but you don't seem well, Sir," he continued, seeing Beauchamp turn a look to the countenance of Ned Hayward, with a cheek that had become as pale as death--"had not you better come in and take something?"
"Presently, presently," said Beauchamp, "go on--what were you saying?"
"Nothing, Sir, but that the lady seems dreadfully wild, and I can't help thinking she's out of her mind--I always did for that matter."
"Is the gentleman dead?" asked Beauchamp, in a low tone.
"No, Sir, not quite dead," said the landlord, "and the surgeon is a sewing up of his throat, but it is no good I'm sure, for the room is all in a slop of blood."
"Do you know his name?" said Beauchamp.
"Why, Captain Moreton, I believe, Sir," said the landlord; "I've heard so, I don't know it for certain."
"I will go in and see him," said the young nobleman, and he added, seeing a look of hesitation on the landlord's countenance, "I am his first cousin, Sir, my name is Lord Lenham."
The announcement removed all doubt upon the good man's mind, and Beauchamp and Ned Hayward walked forward into the inn guided by the landlord. He conducted them at once upstairs to the rooms which had been occupied by Captain Moreton and Charlotte Hay. At one of the doors on the landing-place they saw a man standing with his arms folded on his chest, but the landlord led them past to the room in front of the house, first entering quietly himself. It was a ghastly and horrible scene which presented itself when Beauchamp and Ned Hayward could see into the room. The floor, the carpet, the sofa, were literally drenched with gore, and even the white window-curtains were spotted with dark-red drops. On the sofa, with an old white-headed man and a younger one leaning over him, was the tall, powerful frame of Captain Moreton. His face was as pale as death, his eyes sunk in his head, with a livid-blue colour spreading all round them. His temples seemed as if they had been driven in; the features were pinched and sharp; the eyelids closed; and the only sign of life apparent was a slight spasmodic movement of the muscles of the face, when the hand of the surgeon gave him pain in the operation he was busily performing. Two or three other persons were in the room, amongst whom was the landlord's wife, but they all kept at a distance, and the man himself advanced to the surgeon's side, and whispered a word in his ear.