“The young gentleman that comes here—Moreland’s his name, I believe—was found dead on the road this morning.”
“Dead!”
“They want you to come down to the inquest. They’ve got him in a room of our house. They think it’s a fit—there’s no marks of any thing.”
The father and I looked at each other; the lips of both were quivering; we both thought of Eleanor.
“What shall I do?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Argyll. I haven’t had time to think.”
“I can not—I can not—”
“Nor I—not just yet. Sarah, tell the young ladies we have gone out a short time on business—and don’t you breathe what you have heard. Don’t let any one in until we return—don’t allow any one to see Miss Eleanor. Be prudent.”
Her frightened face did not promise much for her discretion.
Hastening to the hotel, already surrounded by many people, we found the distressing message too true. Upon a lounge, in a private sitting-room, lay the body of Henry Moreland! The coroner and a couple of physicians had already arrived. It was their opinion that he had died from natural causes, as there was not the least evidence of violence to be seen. The face was as pleasant as in slumber; we could hardly believe him dead until we touched the icy forehead, about which the thick ringlets of brown hair clung, saturated with rain.