Snell’s eyes glistened. (“Lady Rawson’s in this, right enough,” he told himself confidently. “And he knows it. He only sent for me as a bit of bluff!”)
Thomson entered, and advanced towards his master, ignoring the presence of a second person. At that moment the telephone on the writing-table tinkled, and Thomson stood still, silent and deferential as usual, as, mechanically, Sir Robert took down the receiver.
“Yes? Yes, I am Sir Robert Rawson. Who is speaking?... Oh!... What’s that?... What?”
The two who were watching him, more or less furtively, were startled, for he dropped the receiver, stumbled to his feet, and glared round helplessly, a dusky flush rising to his face, which was horribly distorted.
Thomson was by his side in an instant, thrusting a supporting arm around him, but Snell sprang forward, seized the receiver and spoke imperatively into the telephone.
“Who is there?... Yes, Sir Robert Rawson was speaking a moment ago, but he has been taken ill.”
He glanced at the group close by. Sir Robert had fallen, or been lowered by Thomson to the floor, and the valet was rapidly unloosening his collar.
“Who are you?... Oh, it’s you, Evans. Western Division. Yes, I’m John Snell of Scotland Yard.... Well, what is it? Lady Rawson murdered! Had she any papers in her possession?... What? Right. I’ll be with you as soon as possible. Ring off.”
“Master, master!” Thomson was stammering. “He’s dying!”
Snell pressed the electric bell, and hurried to meet the footman.