“Thompson,” he said impressively, for now that the crisis he feared had come and gone, he exercised full control over himself. “Thompson, if you ever wished to serve Sir Charles you must do so now by remaining calm. For his sake, help us, and do not create an unnecessary scene.”
Governed by the more powerful nature, the affrighted man struggled to his feet.
“What shall I do?” he whimpered. “Shall I send for a doctor?”
“Yes; say Sir Charles is very ill. Not a word to a soul about what has happened until we have carefully examined the room.”
At that instant Mr. White caught sight of a large and bulky envelope, which had fallen to the floor near the chair on which Sir Charles was seated.
Picking it up, he found it was addressed, “Claude Bruce, Esq. To be delivered to him at once.”
“This will explain matters, I expect,” said the detective.
“Whatever could have come to my master to do such a thing?” groaned Thompson, turning to reach the door.
“Come back,” cried Bruce sharply. “Now, look here, Thompson,” he went on, placing both his hands on the butler’s shoulders and looking him straight in the eyes, “it is imperative that you should pull yourself together. That sort of remark will never do. Sir Charles has simply taken an over-dose of chloral accidentally. He has slept badly ever since Lady Dyke’s death, you understand, and has been in the habit of taking sleeping-draughts. Now, before you leave the room tell me exactly what has happened, in your own language.”
“I can’t put it together now, sir, but I won’t say anything to anybody. You can trust me for that. Why, I loved him as my own son, I did.”