Agnes, the housemaid, sped along the lower hall and collapsed at the foot of the stairs.
“Well, what is it?” Storm demanded peremptorily, but still in that subdued tone. “Burglars here in the night? Don’t you know better than to scream like that? You’ll frighten Mrs. Storm——”
He paused, and the girl’s shocked wail arose once more.
“Mrs. Storm! She’s down here, sir, in the den. Oh, come quick!”
“Down——!”
The word died in Storm’s throat, and still conscious of the cook’s eyes he turned, dashed open the door of his wife’s empty room, uttered a loud ejaculation and then plunged down the stairs.
“I thought she was asleep in her room!” he exclaimed. “Where——?”
“In the den, sir!” Agnes scrambled to her feet and stood clinging to the newel post as Storm passed her and rushed down the hall. “Oh, may God have mercy——!”
He heard a startled cry from above and lumbering feet hastily descended the stairs as he burst into the den and then stopped short. Leila’s body was lying face upward now upon the rug, her waxen features clamped in the rigidity of marble, a hideous brown clot enmeshing the soft gold of her hair and smeared across her forehead.
The cry of horror which burst from Storm’s lips was not all simulation, for anticipated as it was, the sight brought a sickening qualm to him. He had conquered it the next moment, however, and crossing to the body knelt and forced himself to touch it, to raise it until it rested against his knee just as he had done the moment the blow was struck. It was cold and stiff, the neck rigid, the eyes half open and unwinking in their stare.