“To his dismay he found his young master stretched on the turf at the side of the drive, thirty feet from the house. He rushed into the library, where David was still asleep and moving uneasily—muttering, the man thought:
“‘Come quickly, sir,’ he cried, ‘I fear something has happened to Sir Alan. He is lying on the ground outside the house, and I cannot arouse him.’
“Then David Hume-Frazer sprang to his feet and shouted:
“‘My God! It was not a dream. He is murdered!’
“Unquestionably—”
But the barrister’s cold-blooded synopsis of a thrilling crime proved to be too much for his hearer’s nerves. Hume stood up. The man was a born fighter. He could take his punishment, but only on his feet.
Again he cried in anguish:
“No! It was no dream, but a foul murder. And they blame me!”