The butler goes straight up to his young lady's room. Wayward, passionate, proud Miss Inez may be, but she is very dear to him. He has carried her in his arms many a time, a little laughing, black-eyed child. A vague, sickening fear fills him now.
"She hated my lady," he thinks, in a dazed, helpless sort of way; "everybody knows that. What will she say when she hears this?"
He knocks; there is no reply. He knocks again and calls huskily:
"Miss Inez, are you there? For the dear Lord's sake open the door!"
"Come in!" a voice answers.
He cannot tell whether it is Miss Inez or not. He opens the door and enters.
This room is unlit too—the shine of the moon fills it as it fills that other room below. Here too a solitary figure sits, crouches, rather, near the window in a strange, distorted attitude of pain. He knows the flowing black hair, the scarlet wrap—he cannot see her face, she does not look round.
"Miss Inez!"—his voice shakes—"I bring you bad news, awful news.
Don't be shocked—but—a murder has been done."
There is no answer. If she hears him she does not heed. She just sits still and looks out into the night.
"Miss Inez! you hear me?"