“I am Lord Ostermore,” said Rotherby.
“You? Since when?” said Mr. Caryll, not even beginning to understand.
“Since ten minutes ago,” was the callous answer that first gave that household the news of my lord's passing.
There was a movement, a muttering among the servants. Old Humphries broke through the group by the door, his heavy chops white and trembling, and in that moment Hortensia turned, awe-stricken, to ask her ladyship was this true. Her ladyship nodded in silence. Hortensia cried out, and sank to a chair as if beaten down by the news, whilst the old servant, answered, too, withdrew, wringing his hands and making foolish laments; and the tears of those were the only tears that watered the grave of John Caryll, fifth Earl of Ostermore.
As for Mr. Caryll, the shock of that announcement seemed to cast a spell upon him. He stood still, limp and almost numbed. Oh, the never-ceasing irony of things! That his father should have died at such a moment.
“Dead?” quoth he. “Dead? Is my lord dead? They told me he was recovering.”
“They told you false,” answered Rotherby. “So now—those papers!”
Mr. Caryll relinquished them. “Take them,” he said. “Since that is so—take them.”
Rotherby received them himself. “Remove his sword,” he bade a footman.
Mr. Caryll looked sharply round at him. “My sword?” quoth he. “What do you mean by that? What right?”