"Here!" cries Mr. Hooper, his dignity coming to his aid, "let us investigate this here. Lay this young woman flat on her back on the floor, sprinkle her with water, and let her come to. I'm going to find out what she means."
They lay poor Ellen stiffly out as directed, some one dashes water into her face, then in a body, with Mr. Hooper at their head, they march off to investigate.
"She was in the day-nursery," Nurse Pool suggests, in a whisper, and to the day-nursery they go.
On the threshold for a second or two they halt, their courage failing. But there is nothing very terrifying. Only the solemn moonlight, only the motionless little figure in the arm-chair. And yet a great awe holds them back. Does death—does murder stand grisly in their midst?
"Let us go in, in the name of Providence," says Mr. Hooper, a tremble in his voice; "it—it can't be what she says. O good Lord, no!"
They go forward on tiptoe, as if afraid of awakening that quiet sleeper whom only the last trump will ever awake now. They bend above her, holding their breath. Yes, there it is—the blood that is soaking her dress, dripping horribly on the carpet—oozing slowly from that cruel wound.
A gasping, inarticulate sort of groan comes heavily from every lip. Old Hooper takes her wrist between his shaking fingers. Stilled forever, already with the awful chill of death. In the crystal light of the moon the sweet young face has never looked fairer, calmer, more peaceful than now.
The old butler straightens himself up, ashen gray.
"It's too true," he says, with a sort of sob. "O Lord, have mercy on us—it's too true! She's dead! She's murdered!"
He drops the wrist he holds, the little jewelled, dead hand falls limp and heavy. He puts his own hands over his face and sobs aloud: