e now, dear," he reminded her, "and I
really am very fond of you, Maggie."

"And I'm quite absurdly fond of you, Nigel," she acknowledged. "It makes
me feel quite uncomfortable when I reflect that I shall probably have to
order you to make love to some one else before the week is out."

"I shall do nothing of the sort," he declared firmly. "I am not good at
that sort of thing. And who is she, anyhow?"

They were interrupted by a sudden knock at the door--not the discreet
tap of a well-bred domestic, but a flurried, almost an imperative
summons. Before either of them could reply, the door was opened and
Brookes, the elderly butler, presented himself upon the threshold. Even
before he spoke, it was clear that he brought alarming news.

"Will you step down to the library at once, sir?" he begged, addressing
Nigel.

"What is the matter, Brookes?" Maggie demanded anxiously.

"I fear that his lordship is not well," the man replied.

They all hurried out together. Brookes was evidently terribly perturbed
and went on talking half to himself without heeding their questions.

"I thought at first that his lordship must have fainted," he said. "I
heard a queer noise, and when I went in, he had fallen forward across
the table. Parkins has rung for Doctor Wilcox."

"What sort of a noise?" Nigel asked.

"It sounded like a shot," the man faltered.

They entered the library, Nigel leading the way. Lord Dorminster was
lying very much as Brookes had described him, but there was something
altogether unnatural in the collapse of his head and shoulders and his
motionless body. Nigel spoke to him, touched him gently, raised him at
last into a sitting position. Something on which his right hand seemed
to have been resting clattered on to the carpet. Nigel turned around and
waved Maggie back.

"Don't come," he begged.

"Is it a stroke?" she faltered.

"I am afraid that he is dead," Nigel answered simply.

They went out into the hall and waited there in shocked silence until
the doctor arrived. The latter's examination lasted only a few seconds.
Then he pointed to the telephone.

"This is very terrible," he said. "I am afraid you had better ring up
Scotland Yard, Mr. Kingley. Lord Dorminster appears either to have shot
himself, as seems most probable," he added, glancing at the revolver
upon the carpet, "or to have been murdered."

"It is incredible!" Nigel exclaimed. "He was the sanest possible man,
and the happiest, and he