“Wind?” cried Mr Girtle; and he took a step towards the door.
“Stop a minute, sir, please,” said the butler appealingly. “I went in quickly, and the first thing I saw was the curtain dragged aside and the window open.”
“Yes—go on,” cried Mr Girtle, for the butler was trembling so that he could hardly speak.
“And the next, sir—I nearly fell over him—there was poor Mr Ramo—lying—in—a pool of blood.”
“Oh!”
The cry came from Lydia as she tottered and clung to Katrine, calm amidst the horrors of the recital.
“I put the candle on the floor, sir, and went down on my knee beside him,” cried the butler, growing more and more agitated. “Look,” he said, piteously, pointing to his trousers and his hands. “I touched him, sir, but he was dead, sir, dead, and I came up then and alarmed the house.”
Artis looked at the butler narrowly, as his eyes wandered from one to the other.
“Have you been in since, Preenham?”
“No, sir. I went and got the candles, and lit all I could.”