Yes, the big, burly, loud-voiced Major that had driven past the gate flourishing his whip a few hours ago was now merely “it,” and had been laid out on the study sofa, awaiting the county coroner. “May I go, Aunt Emma?” enquired Betty. “I think I might be of some use. I can nurse a little, and I know all the keys.” “To be sure you can go,” returned her cousin promptly, “get ready at once.” Betty’s services at such a time would cement the intimacy between the families, and draw the houses of Noone and Bridgetstown more closely together; of course George would be coming home. Then, to Maria: “Have you telegraphed for Mr. Holroyd?” “No, I never thought of him. I am glad you reminded me.” “Shall I telegraph?” said Belle eagerly. “Oh no, just give me his address, and I will send a wire as I pass the post office. Dr. Moran is up there. He can do no harm to a man once he is dead, but we shall want some one with some sense. From what I can gather, affairs are in an awful state. I should not be surprised if the creditors seized the body; there will be nothing but debts coming in to the widow.” “Oh, I hope not, poor woman,” said Mrs. Redmond sympathetically. “This was the Derby day, you know, and the Major has lost tremendously. He backed some horse for a great deal, and the telegram in his hand said: ‘King Canute not placed.’” “You don’t think he--he made away with himself?” said Mrs. Redmond in a mysterious manner. “Oh, no; it was just this bad news on the top of a very heavy lunch that killed him. Dr. Moran said it was--not that _he_ knows much about it.” “Still, I suppose he knows apoplexy from suicide,” said Belle briskly.