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<h3>Chapter Eight.</h3> <h4>The Horrors of a Morn.</h4> By the time Mr Girtle was partly dressed and had hurried out on the landing, Paul Capel and Gerard Artis had left their rooms, ready to question him upon the cause of the alarm. “I don’t know,” he said, trembling. “Preenham came and roused me—speaking of murder—and, bless my soul! I did not know you were there. Miss Lawrence, too!” Katrine and Lydia had joined them there on the landing of the second floor, where a chamber candlestick on a table was almost the only light, for that which came through the ground-glass at the top of the staircase was so much yellow gloom. “One of the maids—Anne—came and woke me,” said Katrine, speaking very calmly, as she looked from one to the other, the most collected of any one present. “She said there was something wrong.” “She woke me, too,” cried Lydia, who was trembling visibly, and looked of a sallow grey. “Mr Girtle, will you come down?” It was the butler’s voice, and Paul Capel ran quickly down the stairs to the drawing-room floor, where the old butler, ghastly pale, with his hair sticking to his forehead, had lit half-a-dozen candles and stood them, some on a table, some on the pedestal of the great bronze group outside Colonel Capel’s door. “What is it? Speak, man!” cried Capel. “The ladies! Don’t let the ladies come!” It was too late; they were already there; and the women-servants were dimly seen in the gloom at the foot of the stairs. “But what is wrong?” cried Capel. “I—I—” The butler passed his hand over his humid face, and looked piteously from one to the other. “Preenham! Speak, man! At once!” said Mr Girtle, sternly. “I woke at half-past seven, sir,” he said, in a trembling voice, “and wondered that I had not been called at seven. Mr Ramo, sir, always rose very early, and called me and Charles; but I was not surprised, for since master’s death, he has slept outside his door, I think—I’m almost sure, though I never said anything to—” “Man, you are torturing us!” cried Capel. “Give him time,” said Artis, who looked nervous and strange. “Yes, let him speak,” said Katrine. “Go on, Mr Preenham, and tell us.” “Thank you ma’am, I will,” said the butler; “but—but would you ladies go back to your room or the drawing-room, I’ve something—something—” “I’m not a child,” said Katrine. “Lydia, dear, you had better go.” “I will stay with you,” said Lydia, laying her hand upon Katrine’s arm; and after a helpless look round, and a motion of his hands, as if he washed them of any trouble that might come, the old butler went on. “I didn’t take much notice, as we were late last night, but as soon as I was dressed, I knocked at Charles’ door—he sleeps in a turn-up bedstead in the servants’ hall.” The old man directed this piece of information to those around him, and then went on. “There was no answer, so I went in, and Charles was not there.” “Not there?” said Mr Girtle, quickly. “No, sir. The bed had not been slept in. His livery was on the chair by it, and his cupboard was open where he keeps his private clothes.” “This is strange,” said Mr Girtle. “Go on.” “Yes, sir. I thought perhaps he had let himself out through the area gate, sir. He has done such things before, and at a time like this I must speak plain.” “Yes. Let me have the truth. Go on.” “I was very angry, sir, and I meant to tell you, for it seemed disgraceful at such a time.” “Go on.” “I will, sir,” faltered the butler, “but you must not flurry me. I have had a shock.” “Let him go on his own way, Mr Capel,” said the old lawyer. Preenham gave him a grateful look and continued: “I thought I’d go and speak to Mr Ramo, and then I met Cook and Anne.” “We were on the mat, Mr Preenham,” said a husky voice from below. “Yes, Mrs Thompson, quite right, and they went on to the kitchen while I went up into the hall, and undid the bolts of the front hall door, and let down the chain.” “Yes—exactly.” “Then I went up, sir, to see if Mr Ramo was at master’s door.” “Yes; go on,” said Capel, excitedly. “And when I came to the door, sir, I found it was ajar, and though I listened, I could not hear a sound. So I pushed the door against the big curtain, and called softly, ‘Ramo! Mr Ramo!’ but there was no answer, and then I felt a bit alarmed, and, after waiting a moment, I went down and got a light.” “Well?” “I called again, sir, twice; and then, pushing open the door, a puff of wind nearly blew out the light.” “Wind?” cried Mr Girtle; and he took a step towards the door. “Stop a minute, sir, please,” said the butler appealingly. “I went in quickly, and the first thing I saw was the curtain dragged aside and the window open.” “Yes—go on,” cried Mr Girtle, for the butler was trembling so that he could hardly speak. “And the next, sir—I nearly fell over him—there was poor Mr Ramo—lying—in—a pool of blood.” “Oh!” The cry came from Lydia as she tottered and clung to Katrine, calm amidst the horrors of the recital. “I put the candle on the floor, sir, and went down on my knee beside him,” cried the butler, growing more and more agitated. “Look,” he said, piteously, pointing to his trousers and his hands. “I touched him, sir, but he was dead, sir, dead, and I came up then and alarmed the house.” Artis looked at the butler narrowly, as his eyes wandered from one to the other. “Have you been in since, Preenham?” “No, sir. I went and got the candles, and lit all I could.” Capel was about to rush into the room, but he stopped on the threshold. “Miss D’Enghien—Miss Lawrence—this is no place for you. Pray go back to your rooms.” “Yes,” said Katrine, slowly, “Mr Capel is right. Come, dear, with me.” She passed her arm round Lydia, and the two seemed to fade away into the darkness, as Capel, Mr Girtle, Artis, and, lastly, the butler went into the room. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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