Charlotte Delves returned with a teaspoon and the brandy in a wine-glass. As is sure to be the case in an emergency, there had been an unavoidable delay. The spirit-stand was not in its place, and for a minute or two she had been unable to find it. Mr. Edwin Barley took up a teaspoonful. His wife drew away.
"Was it an accident, or—or—done deliberately?" inquired Charlotte Delves, as she stood there, holding the glass.
"It was deliberate murder!"
"Duff said so. But who did it?"
"It is of no use, Charlotte," was all the reply Mr. Barley made, as he gave her back the teaspoon. "He is quite dead."
Hasty footsteps were heard running along the avenue, and up the steps to the door. They proved to be those of Mr. Lowe, the surgeon from Hallam.
"I was walking over to Smith's to dinner, Mr. Edwin Barley, and met one of your labourers coming for me," he exclaimed, in a loud tone, as he entered. "He said some accident had happened to young King."
"Accident enough," said Mr. Edwin Barley. "Here he lies."
For a few moments nothing more was said. Mr. Lowe was stooping over the table.
"I was trying to give him some brandy when you came in."