"He did not die by his own hand," Stafford said aloud.
He rang the bell loudly. No one answered. He rang and rang again, and then a lazy porter came.
CHAPTER XXIII
"MORE WAS LOST AT MOHACKSFIELD"
Eastminster House was ablaze. A large dinner had been fixed for this October evening, and only just before half-past eight Jasmine entered the drawing-room to receive her guests. She had completely forgotten the dinner till very late in the afternoon, when she observed preparations for which she had given instructions the day before. She was about to leave the house upon the mission which had drawn her footsteps in the same direction as those of Ian Stafford, when the butler came to her for information upon some details. These she gave with an instant decision which was part of her equipment, and then, when the butler had gone, she left the house on foot to take a cab at the corner of Piccadilly.
When she returned home, the tables in the dining-room were decorated, the great rooms were already lighted, and the red carpet was being laid down at the door. The footmen looked up with surprise as she came up the steps, and their eyes followed her as she ascended the staircase with marked deliberation.
"Well, that's style for you," said the first footman. "Takin' an airin' on shanks' hosses."
"And a quarter of an hour left to put on the tirara," sniggered the second footman. "The lot is asked for eight-thirty."
"Swells, the bunch, windin' up with the brother of an Emperor—'struth!"