"Yes," whispered Suzette, "Come upstairs!" Not knowing what the evil chance might be, he followed her, and she led him into Harriet Courtland's room. She had already opened one of the shutters, and the early light streamed in on to the bed. Harriet lay on her side, with her head thrown back on the pillow and her eyes turned up to the ceiling. She lay above the clothes of the bed, and her nightgown was torn away from her throat. Suzette had thrown a dressing-gown over her body from breast to feet. She looked wonderfully handsome as she lay there, so still, so peaceful, like some splendid animal in a reaction of exhaustion after savage grand exertion. He drew near. The truth came home to him at once. The two stood and looked at Harriet. At last he turned to Suzette. He found her very pale, but quite calm. "She's dead, Mr. Imason," Suzette said. "How?" he asked. "An over-dose of chloral. She often used to take it--and of course she would be very likely to want a sleeping-draught last night." "Yes, yes, of course she would. Her nerves would be so much upset." Their eyes met--Suzette's seemed puzzled. "What do you think?" asked Grantley in a whisper. "I really don't know. She would really have been quite likely to take too much. She would be impatient if it didn't act quickly, you know." "Yes, yes, of course she would. Have you sent for a doctor?" "Oh, yes, directly I found her--before I came to you. But I've done some nursing, and--and there's not the least----" She stopped suddenly, and was silent for several seconds. Then she said quietly and calmly: "There's not the least chance, Mr. Imason." Grantley knew what word she had rejected in favour of "chance," and why the word had seemed inappropriate. He acknowledged the justice of the change with a mournful gesture of his hands. "Well, we can never know whether it was accidental or not," he said, as he turned to leave the room. "No, we can never know that," said Suzette. How should they know? Harriet Courtland had not known herself. As always, so to the end, her fury had been blind, and had destroyed her blindly. She had struck at herself as recklessly as at her child; and here her blow had killed. Her rage had run its final course, and for the last time had its way. She slept. And while she slept, her home was waking to the life of a new day. CHAPTER XXIV FRIENDS