into the room, a brace of footmen at their heels. They were followed
more leisurely by the countess; whilst a little flock of servants
brought up the rear, but checked upon the threshold, and hung there to
witness events that held out such promise of being unusual.

Mr. Caryll swore through set teeth, and made a dash for the desk. But he
was too late to accomplish his object. His hand had scarcely closed upon
the letters, when he was, himself, seized. Rotherby and Green, on
either side of him, held him in their grasp, each with one hand upon his
shoulder and the other at his wrist. Thus stood he, powerless between
them, and, after the first shock of it, cool and making no effort to
disengage himself. His right hand was tightly clenched upon the letters.

Rotherby called a servant forward. "Take those papers from the thief's
hand," he commanded.

"Stop!" cried Mr. Caryll. "Lord Rotherby, may I speak with you alone
before you go further in a matter you will bitterly regret?"

"Take those papers from him," Rotherby repeated, swearing; and the
servant bent to the task. But Mr. Caryll suddenly wrenched the hand away
from the fellow and the wrist out of Lord Rotherby's grip.

"A moment, my lord, as you value your honor and your possessions!" he
insisted. "Let me speak with Lord Ostermore first. Take me before him."

"You are before him now," said Rotherby. "Say on!"

"I demand to see Lord Ostermore."

"I am Lord Ostermore," said Rotherby.

"You? Since when?" said Mr. Caryll, not even beginning to understand.

"Since ten minutes ago," was the callous answer that first gave that
household the news of my lord's passing.

There was a movement, a muttering among the servants. Old Humphries
broke through the group by the door, his heavy chops white and
trembling, and in that moment Hortensia turned, awe-stricken, to ask her
ladyship was this true. Her ladyship nodded in silence. Hortensia cried
out, and sank to a chair as if beaten down by the news, whilst the old
servant, answered, too, withdrew, wringing his hands and making foolish
laments; and the tears of those were the only tears that watered the
grave of John Caryll, fifth Earl of Ostermore.

As for Mr. Caryll, the shock of that announcement seemed to cast a spell
upon him. He stood still, limp and almost numbed. Oh, the never-ceasing
irony of things! That his father should have died at such a moment.

"Dead?" quoth he. "Dead? Is my lord dead? They told me he w