“They haven’t come!” Mrs. Ward looked shocked. “All the servants were to leave Atlantic City this morning on the first train. No wonder you were frightened, Miss Evelyn, all alone in this big house.”
“But I was not alone.” Evelyn pushed aside the empty glass; she felt refreshed by the cold water and the presence of Mrs. Ward restored her to some degree of composure. “There’s a dead man upstairs!”
The glass slipped from Mrs. Ward’s hand and broke on the highly polished floor.
“Are you mad?” Mrs. Ward spoke more roughly than she realized, and Evelyn’s angry flush caused her to modify her tone to its customary civility. “Are you in earnest, Miss Evelyn?” Evelyn nodded vigorously, and Mrs. Ward’s comely face paled. “It’s—It’s not Mr. Burnham?”
“No; I have never seen the man before.”
Mrs. Ward stared blankly at Evelyn, then roused herself. “Hadn’t I better go and investigate?” she asked. “You may be mistaken, Miss; perhaps the man’s only asleep.”
Evelyn shivered. “Men don’t sleep with their eyes open,” she said dully, rising. “I’m coming with you,” and she quickened her pace to keep up with Mrs. Ward as the latter led the way upstairs to the library. Mrs. Ward faltered just inside the room as her eyes fell on the quiet figure near the fireplace; then, repressing all emotion, she strode over to the figure and bent, as Evelyn had done, and placed her hand on the dead man’s wrist. When she turned back to Evelyn, who lingered near the doorway, her face rivaled the young girl’s in whiteness.
“I’d better go for Dr. Hayden.” She mumbled the words so that she was forced to repeat them before Evelyn understood her.
“Try the telephone,” the latter suggested, “that’s quicker.”
Mrs. Ward glanced shrinkingly at the telephone stand which stood almost at the dead man’s elbow and shook her head.