"Who will tell Sir Victor? O my master! my dear young master!"
No one speaks—a spell of great horror has fallen upon them. Murdered in their midst, in their peaceful household—they cannot comprehend it. At last—
"Where is Miss Catheron?" asks a sombre voice.
No one knows who speaks; no one seems to care; no one dare reply.
"Where is Inez Catheron?" the voice says again.
Something in the tone, something in the ghastly silence that follows, seems to arouse the butler. Since his tenth year he has been in the service of the Catherons—his father before him was butler in this house. Their honor is his. He starts angrily round now.
"Who was that?" he demands. "Of course Miss Inez knows nothing of this."
No one had accused her, but he is unconsciously defending her already.
"She must be told at once," he says. "I'll go and tell her myself.
Edwards, draw the curtains, will you, and light the candles?"
He leaves the room. The valet mechanically does as he is bid—the curtains are drawn, the waxlights illumine the apartment. No one else stirs. The soft, abundant light falls down upon that tranquil, marble face—upon that most awful stain of blood.