The lawyer saw the naked sword lying on the carpet; that the drawers and cabinet had been ransacked; and that the window was not quite shut down.
He took this in at a glance as he ran to where Capel lay close to the door, where he had dragged himself sometime during the early hours of the morn, to lie exhausted after vainly trying to raise the alarm.
“He’s dead, sir, dead!” groaned the butler.
“Hush!” cried the old lawyer harshly. “He’s not dead. Mr Artis, you are young and active. Quick. That doctor, Mr Heston. You know where he lives. You, Preenham, brandy. Stop. Tell the ladies Mr Capel is ill. Nothing more. Don’t spread the alarm.”
“Is anything very serious the matter?” said a voice at the door.
“Yes—no, my dear. Go away now,” cried the old lawyer, “Mr Capel is ill.”
“There is something terribly wrong again,” said a deeper voice, and, white as ashes and closely followed by Katrine, Lydia came in.
She uttered a faint cry, and then wrested herself from Artis, who tried to stop her.
“No,” she cried, imperiously, changed as it were in an instant from a shivering girl into a thoughtful woman. “Quick: go for help. Mr Girtle, what can I do?”
“Yes, let me help too,” said Katrine. “What is it; has he tried to kill himself?”