I regretted this engagement, because it prevented me seeing Muriel home; but when I referred to it she declared that she would take a cab from the rank outside, as she had done so many times in the old days of our friendship, and she would get back quite comfortably.
She buttoned her gloves, and after kissing me fondly re-adjusted her veil. Then, when we had repeated our vows of undying affection and she had promised me to return and lunch with me next morning, as it was Sunday, she went out and down the stairs.
I was a trifle annoyed that, at the club earlier in the day, I had made the appointment with Bryant, but the sum I had lent was sixty pounds, and, knowing what a careless fellow he was, I felt that it was best to obtain repayment now, when he offered it; hence I was prevented from accompanying Muriel. But as it could not be avoided, and as she had expressed herself perfectly content to return alone, I cast myself again in my chair, mixed a whiskey and soda, lit a cigarette, and gave myself up to reflection.
Muriel loved me. I cared for nought else in all the world. She would be my wife, and after travelling on the Continent for a while we would live somewhere in the country quietly, where we could enjoy ourselves amid that rural peace which to the London-worn is so restful, so refreshing, and so soothing.
After perhaps a quarter of an hour I heard Simes go to the door, and Bryant’s voice exclaim hurriedly—“Is your master in?”
“Come in, my dear fellow! Come in!” I shouted, without rising from my chair.
Next instant he dashed into the room, his face white and scared, exclaiming—
“There’s something wrong down at the bottom of your stairs! Come with me and see, old chap. There’s a girl lying there—a pretty girl dressed in grey—and I believe she’s dead.”
“Dead!” I gasped, petrified, for the description he had given was that of Muriel.
“Yes,” he cried, excitedly. “I believe she’s been murdered!”