"Sir Charles!" he wailed. "Sir Charles! For the love of Heaven, speak to us. You can't be dead. Oh, you can't. It ain't fair. You're too young to die. What curse has come upon the house that both should go?" Bruce leaned over and shook the old butler firmly by the shoulder. "Thompson," he said impressively, for now that the crisis he feared had come and gone, he exercised full control over himself. "Thompson, if you ever wished to serve Sir Charles you must do so now by remaining calm. For his sake, help us, and do not create an unnecessary scene." Governed by the more powerful nature, the affrighted man struggled to his feet. "What shall I do?" he whimpered. "Shall I send for a doctor?" "Yes; say Sir Charles is very ill. Not a word to a soul about what has happened until we have carefully examined the room." At that instant Mr. White caught sight of a large and bulky envelope, which had fallen to the floor near the chair on which Sir Charles was seated. Picking it up, he found it was addressed, "Claude Bruce, Esq. To be delivered to him _at once_." "This will explain matters, I expect," said the detective. "Whatever could have come to my master to do such a thing?" groaned Thompson, turning to reach the door. "Come back," cried Bruce sharply. "Now, look here, Thompson," he went on, placing both his hands on the butler's shoulders and looking him straight in the eyes, "it is imperative that you should pull yourself together. That sort of remark will never do. Sir Charles has simply taken an over-dose of chloral accidentally. He has slept badly ever since Lady Dyke's death, you understand, and has been in the habit of taking sleeping-draughts. Now, before you leave the room tell me exactly what has happened, in your own language." "I can't put it together now, sir, but I won't say anything to anybody. You can trust me for that. Why, I loved him as my own son, I did." "Yes, I know that well. But remember. An over-dose. An accident. Nothing else. Do you follow me?" "Quite, sir. Heaven help us all." "Very well. Now send for the doctor, without needlessly alarming the other servants." Bruce placed the envelope in the pocket of his overcoat, saying to the detective: "We will examine this later, White. Just now we must do what we can to avoid a scandal. The case between Lady Dyke and her husband will be settled by a higher tribunal than we had counted upon." "It certainly _looks_ like an accident, Mr. Bruce," was the answer, "but it all depends upon the view the doctor takes. And you know, of course, that I shall have to report the actual facts to my superiors." "That is obvious. Yet no harm is done at this early stage in taking such steps as may finally render undue publicity needless. It may be impossible; but on the other hand, until we have heard Sir Charles's version, contained, I suppose, in this letter to me, it is advisable to sustain the theory of an accidental death."