“Yes, Mrs. Tracy, and she’s now Lady Overton; and of course I’m very glad of it, for her sake.”
“Of course, sir,” acquiesces Mrs. Tracy.
“And the funny thing is,” he added, with the most pitiable attempt at hilarity, “he never paid me back that hundred pounds—ha, ha, ha!”
It was a mockery of laughter, the cachinnation of a ghost.
“And to-night, Mrs. Tracy,” he said, “I am going home.”
“To Devonshire, sir?”
“I said home,” he answered; “but you will come as usual in the morning, and see that all is right. You can go, Mrs. Tracy. Good-bye.”
And to the utter astonishment of the poor woman, he shook hands with her, and, I fear, retained her hand for a moment, and there was the suspicion of moisture in his eyes.
The next morning, when Mrs. Tracy came to see that all was right, she found Mr. Reginald Grey stretched lifeless on the hearthrug. A revolver lay beside him, and there was a bullet through his forehead. In his left hand was an open locket, containing a little wisp of straw-coloured hair.