The old lawyer ran from the door with an alacrity not to be expected in one of his years, and returned directly with the key that he had found in his table.
“Give it to me,” said Artis huskily, and snatching the key he tried to insert it, but his hand trembled so that he did not succeed, and the next moment he shrank away.
“Here, open that door, Preenham,” he said.
“I daren’t, sir, I daren’t indeed. Ah, poor young man!”
“Give me the key,” said the old lawyer firmly, and taking it, he tried the door, to find that the lock had been tampered with, so that it was some minutes before he could get it to move.
“Hadn’t I better fetch the police, sir?” faltered the butler.
“No; stop,” said the old lawyer, turning the handle. “There is some one against the door.”
He pushed hard, and with some effort got it open so that he could have squeezed in.
“It is all dark,” he said. “No it is the curtain,” and forcing his way through, he drew back the hangings from the window.
“It’s poor Capel—dead!” whispered Artis, who had followed. “Here, Preenham, come in,” he cried angrily. “Oh, how horrible—poor lad!”