Her first thought was of the jewels, and she proceeded to examine the secret recess. Yes, it stood open. The jewels had disappeared; they were stolen. But not another article in the room, save the bureau, had been touched.
Whilst his mistress was slowly gathering in these particulars, Aaron opened the other shutter, and stepped over the low sill into the garden. The hard gravelled path came close up to the window, so that he had little hope of finding any footmarks which might serve as a clue to the thief or thieves. But Aaron, glancing keenly about, saw something lying under a holly-bush, a little distance away, that for the moment caused his heart to stand still. To his old eyes it almost looked like Hubert; Hubert lying on his back.
The sleepy maids were beginning to come downstairs then. One of them--it was Betsy Tucker--entered the morning-room, and stood half-dazed at what she saw. The window open, papers scattered on the carpet, her mistress, partially dressed, standing before the bureau, and Aaron hastening down the gravel path outside.
A low cry, growing into an agonised shriek, burst upon the girl's ear and that of her mistress. It came from the old man. He had dropped on one knee, and was trying to lift what was lying there: Hubert Stone. Ah, never more, never more would he be lifted in life. His wide-open eyes, staring upwards, saw nothing, his form was rigid, his hair wet with the night's dews. He had been dead some hours, stabbed by some villain through the heart.