"There isn't a sound to be heard, sir," Ford said, his ear to the crack. "I've called repeatedly, Mr. Stephen." Stephen raised his brows. "Oh? Uncle Nat! Uncle Nat, are you all right?"
There was no answer. Frowning, Stephen set his shoulder to the door. Under the combined efforts of himself and Ford, the lock burst at last, and both men were precipitated into the room.
It was a large, wainscoted apartment, with a fourposter bed, and heavy black oak furniture. The curtains had been drawn across the windows, and the lights were turned on. A red fire glowed in the hearth, and not far from it, beside a ladder-back chair, Nathaniel Herriard lay on the floor, with his head on his arm, as though asleep.
"Good God, he must have fainted!" Stephen exclaimed, striding forward, and dropping to his knees beside Nathaniel. "Get some brandy, Ford! Don't stand there staring!"
Joseph came bustling up in a twitter of concern. "Oh dear, how can this have happened? Nat, old man, Nat!"
"It's no use yapping at him," Stephen said, looking rather white. "He's dead."
"Stephen!" gasped Joseph. "Dead. Nonsense! He can't be! He's fainted, that's all!"
Stephen rose from his knees. "Feel him," he said crudely.
"No, no, no, I won't believe it!" Joseph stammered, in his turn kneeling beside Nathaniel's body, and picking up one of his lifeless hands. "Fetch a mirror! If we hold it in front of his lips -"
"You fool, can't you see he's dead?" Stephen snapped.