Joseph gave a moan, and began distractedly to chafe the hand he held. "But how could he be? He wasn't ill, Stephen! Nat, my dear Nat!"
"I don't know. Stroke, I suppose. What do we do now?"
"A doctor, quickly! No, no, he can't be dead!"
"Yes, I suppose we ought to send for a doctor," Stephen said, his voice jumpy under its studied nonchalance. "Ford had better ring up. Cheerful Christmas party, yours, Joe."
"Don't!" Joseph begged, in broken tones.
The valet came hurrying back into the room with the brandy decanter, and a glass, but was checked on the threshold by Stephen, who said: "That won't be wanted. He's dead. Go and ring up his doctor, will you?"
"Dead, sir?" said Ford, turning a sickly colour. "Not the master, Mr. Stephen?"
"Who else, fool? On second thoughts, you can give me that brandy. Go and get hold of a doctor, and be quick about it, see?"
"Ford!" Joseph said, in a strangled voice. "Say nothing of this to anyone!"
"Why not?" demanded Stephen. "They've got to know. Not proposing to carry on with your blasted festivities, are you?"