“For Heaven’s sake, get up, sir, and I’ll call Mr Capel, sir!” panted the butler.
“What! Something wrong?”
“Yes, sir—quick! I’m afraid there’s murder done.”
Chapter Eight.
The Horrors of a Morn.
By the time Mr Girtle was partly dressed and had hurried out on the landing, Paul Capel and Gerard Artis had left their rooms, ready to question him upon the cause of the alarm.
“I don’t know,” he said, trembling. “Preenham came and roused me—speaking of murder—and, bless my soul! I did not know you were there. Miss Lawrence, too!”
Katrine and Lydia had joined them there on the landing of the second floor, where a chamber candlestick on a table was almost the only light, for that which came through the ground-glass at the top of the staircase was so much yellow gloom.