"Murdered!" she repeated in a low incredulous voice. "Ridiculous, Ned! Who told you?"
"I only know the man by sight, but he seemed to believe it right enough."
"But how—who did it?"
Her brother shook his head.
"Don't know. He couldn't tell me. My God, I hope it's not true! I'm off to see."
A few minutes later he was driving his mare headlong for his kinsman's house. It had begun to rain by this time, and the mournful wreaths of vapour that swept over the bare, late autumnal country and drove in fine drops against his face sent his spirits down ever lower as the mare splashed her way along the empty miles of road. The melancholy thrumming of the telegraph wires droned by his side all the while, and as this dirge waxed for the moment as they passed each post, his eye would glance grimly at those gaunt poles. Very suitable and handy for a certain purpose, they struck him—if by any possibility this tale were true.
He knew the worst when he saw Bisset at the door.
"Thank God, you've come, sir," said the butler devoutly. "The master would have expected it of you."
"How did it happen? What does it mean? Do you mean to say it's actually true?"
Bisset shook his head sombrely.