that somebody had
entered and departed as silently as a tiger.

Musard went swiftly to the bedside and bent over the girl.

"She has been shot," he said, in a tone which was little more than a
whisper.

"She has been murdered!" It was Phil, pressing close behind Musard, who
uttered these words. "Murdered!" he cried, in an unnatural voice, which
was dreadful to hear. He made a few steps in the direction of the bed
with his arms outstretched, then stopped, and, swinging round, faced the
guests who were thronging the corridor outside. "Murdered, I say!" he
repeated. "Where is the murderer?"

He stood for a moment, fixing a wild eye on the group of frightened
faces in the doorway, as though seeking the murderer among them. Then
his face became distorted, and he fell to the ground. His limbs seemed
to grow rigid as he lay; his legs were extended stiffly, the upper part
of his arms were pressed against his breast, but the forearms inclined
forward, with the palms of the hand thrown back, and the fingers wide
apart. Even in his unconsciousness he looked as though he were warding
off the horror of the sight which had stricken him to the ground.

In the presence of domestic calamity human nature betrays its inherent
weakness. At such times the artificial outer covering of civilization
falls away, and the soul stands forth, stark, primitive, forlorn, and
cries aloud. The strain of the tremendous tragedy which had entered his
house, swift-footed and silent, was too much for Sir Philip. He sank on
his knees by the side of his unconscious son, whimpering like a child--a
weak and helpless old man. There was no trace of the dignity of the
Herediths or pride of race in the wrinkled face, now distorted with the
pitiful grin of senility, as Sir Philip crouched over his son, stroking
his face with feeble fingers.

One or two of the women in the passage became hysterical. The young men
looked on awkwardly, with grave faces, not knowing what to do. There was
something very English in their shy aloofness; in their dislike of
intruding in the room unasked.

Musard, looking round from the bedside, glanced briefly at the prostrate
figure of Phil, and then his gleaming eyes travelled to the group at the
doorway. He, at all events, was calm, and master of himself.

"The ladies had better go downstairs," he said, speaking in a subdued
voice, but with decision. "They can do no good here. And will you
two"--he singled out two of the young