The servants stand huddled together in the centre of the room. It lies there, in its dreadful quiet, before them. Every eye turns darkly upon Miss Catheron as she comes in.
She never sees them. She advances like a sleep-walker, that dazed, dumb horror still in her eyes, the whiteness of death on her face. She walks over and looks down upon the dead mistress of Catheron Royals. No change comes over her—she softens neither into pity nor tears. So long she stands there, so rigid she looks, so threatening are the eyes that watch her, that Hooper interposes his portly figure between her and them.
"Miss Inez," he says, "will you please give your orders? Shall I send for Sir Victor at once, or—"
"Yes, send for Sir Victor at once." She arouses herself to say it. "And I think you had better send to Chesholm for a doctor and—and the police."
"The police!"
"A murder has been committed," she says, in a cold, hard voice; "the murderer must be found."
Something of her old calm, stately haughtiness returns as she speaks.
"This room must be cleared. Let no one touch her," she shudders and looks away, "until Sir Victor comes. Ellen, Pool, Hooper, you three had better remain to watch. Edwards, mount the fastest horse in the stables and ride to Powyss Place for your life."
"Yes, miss," Edwards answers, in a low voice; "and please, miss, am I to tell Sir Victor?"
She hesitates a moment—her face changes, her voice shakes a little for the first time.