He had not to wait long.

A cry rang through the house; it was followed by others; there was the
sound of rushing footsteps and voices raised in terror; his door was
flung open and Simcox stood on the threshold, his face white, his eyes
starting; he gaped at his master speechlessly, and Heyton gaped back at
him.

"Well, what the devil is it?" he asked at last, his face red, his lips
quivering. "What do you mean by rushing in, in this--idiotic fashion?"

"Oh, my lord!" gasped Simcox. "Something's--something's happened. Oh,
it's awful! It's the Marquess's man--Mr. Jenkins--he's just been to call
his lordship and--and--oh, my lord, it's 'orrible!"

Heyton rose, gripping the back of the chair.

"What do you mean?" he demanded. "What the devil are you talking about?"

"Oh, my lord, the Marquess is dead!" stammered Simcox.

"Dead!" echoed Heyton, his face livid, his whole form shaking as if with
palsy.

"Well, Jenkins thinks so, my lord. If so, it's--murder."

"Murder!" echoed Heyton, his voice again hoarse.

"Yes, my lord. There's been a burglary; the safe, the safe in his
lordship's dressing-room, has been broken into. Jenkins found his
lordship lying on the ground--there was blood----"

The man's voice had risen by this time and it brought Miriam to the
door. She looked from one to the other, the nameless terror she felt
showing in her eyes.

"What is it?" she demanded.

"Go--go away, Miriam," said Heyton, hoarsely. "Go back to your own
room."

Disregarding his injunctions with a kind of contempt, she advanced and
addressed herself to the terror-stricken valet.

"What is it, Simcox?" she asked. "I heard you say----"

"Yes, my lady, it's true," faltered Simcox, wiping the sweat from his
face. "I helped Jenkins carry the Marquess into his bedroom. If his
lordship isn't dead, he's as good as dead."

Swiftly, without a moment's hesitation, Miriam went past them to the
Marquess's bedroom, thrusting her way through a crowd of horrified,
gaping servants. The Marquess lay on the bed where they had placed him.
The blood had ceased flowing, but it had stained one side of his face,
had reddened a greater part of the old-fashioned night-shirt which he
wore. He lay quite still, his eyes closed. She stood and looked at him,
frozen with horror; then she became conscious that her husband was
standing beside her.

"Is he dead?" she asked, almost inaudibly. "Who--who has done this?"

At the question, he drew back a l