Her scepticism, based on the complete inability of a girl whose experience has run along quiet channels to credit anything terrible as happening in her own life, had a steadying effect upon him. “It is true,” he answered less tensely. “I almost stumbled across him as I was coming up to bed; he is dead beyond possibility of doubt.” “How horrible!” she exclaimed, every nerve wrung. “What can have happened?” “I don’t know. He has a horrible gash in his temple.” “I don’t understand; did he fall?” “I am afraid he has been murdered,” he answered slowly. “Murdered!” The sinister word struck her like a blow and she recoiled in horror. “In this house! How could he have been?” “I don’t know. That will all have to be gone into later. Will you break it to Celia?” “I suppose I must.” “And Lady Penterton must be told.” “I will go and tell Celia now and she must tell her mother.” “Yes, but whatever you do, don’t let either of them come downstairs. He was awful enough in life, but now, Evelyn, it’s hideous!” She shuddered involuntarily, then laid her hand on his arm. “You’re unnerved, Philip,” she said. “What can I do to help? Shall I come down as soon as I’ve told Celia? It won’t be so bad for me.” He drew back almost fiercely. “You!” he cried. “How can you suggest such a thing? Stay with them. You must, I tell you. I wouldn’t have you see it for the world. Besides, Fairlie’s there.” She looked at him a moment. “Very well,” she said quietly. “I’ll go to Celia now.” And she had gone along to her friend’s room, which lay separated from her own only by a room that had once been a nursery, and now was given over to the two girls as a study and workroom. She tapped lightly on the door with a rhythm they were in the habit of using to each other, and opened it, but she had hardly entered before she was met by Celia who, seizing her arm with a quick, half-imploring gesture, asked in tones almost of despair, “Evelyn! What is it? How you startled me!” She had obviously leapt out of bed at the first sound of the tapping; she was in her nightdress, her hair was flowing loose in some disorder, and her face looked particularly childlike and even piteous. Evelyn gathered the slight figure to her and said with the utmost gentleness, “Darling, you must be brave.” “I know,” answered Celia, clinging to her, “I’m a pitiful coward, but I couldn’t sleep, and I—I suppose I lay imagining things; I think—I think,” her hesitating uncertainty of speech made her seem more fragile than ever, “I perhaps was dreaming a little; and then when I heard your rap it made me so frightened. Why have you come? I thought you would be asleep ages ago.” “You must be brave, darling,” Evelyn repeated, drawing her down into the bed and sitting down beside her. “Philip has just woken me to tell me some bad news.” “Bad news!” exclaimed Celia, half starting up. “What has happened? Evelyn, tell me what has happened. Quickly, tell me quickly!”