James Steadman was dead. Medicine could do nothing for that lifeless clay, lying on the hearth by which he had sat on so many winter nights, for so many years of faithful unquestioning service. There was nothing to be done for that stiffening form, save the last offices for the dead; and Lord Hartfield left Mr. Horton to arrange with the weeping woman as to the doing of these. He was anxious to go to Lady Maulevrier, to break to her, as gently as might be, the news of her servant's death.
And what of that strange old man in the upper rooms? Who was to attend upon him, now that the caretaker was laid low?
While Lord Hartfield lingered on the threshold of the door that led from the old house to the new, pondering this question, there came the sound of wheels on the carriage drive, and then a loud ring at the hall door.
It was Maulevrier, just arrived from Scotland, smelling of autumn rain and cool fresh air.
'Dreadfully bored on the moors,' he said, as they shook hands. 'No birds—nobody to talk to—couldn't stand it any longer. How are the sisters? Lesbia better? Why, man alive, how queer you look! Nothing amiss, I hope?'
'Yes, there is something very much amiss. Steadman is dead.'
'Steadman! Her ladyship's right hand. That's rather bad. But you will drop into his stewardship. She'll trust your long head, I know. Much better that she should look to her granddaughter's husband for advice in all business matters than to a servant. When did it happen?'
'Half an hour ago. I was just going to Lady Maulevrier's room when you rang the bell. Take off your Inverness, and come with me.'
'The poor grandmother,' muttered Maulevrier. 'I'm afraid it will be a blow.'
He had much less cause for fear than Lord Hartfield, who knew of deep and secret reasons why Steadman's death should be a calamity of dire import for his mistress. Maulevrier had been told nothing of that scene with the strange old man—the hidden treasures—the Anglo-Indian phrases—which had filled Lord Hartfield's mind with the darkest doubts.