As the tenth dance was about to begin, he saw Fred make some excuse to the lady whom he was leading to the ball-room; heard the words, ‘Very sorry--back in a minute.’ The young lady was put on a cushioned bench beside the wall, and Fred quickly departed, with a look of resolution on his face. Sebastian, with Helena on his arm, looked after Spenceley. He was going upstairs. Mallory, throughout all the dance, could not keep himself from wondering what was taking place in one of those upper rooms. What confession, or what revelation? Were things very bad? Was the crisis a very critical one? ‘You have become perfectly silent, Mr. Mallory--not to say morose,’ remarked Helena. ‘And when I was dancing with Hugo, I saw you looking in upon us with a sort of glare. What is the matter?’ ‘Oh, nothing! Miss Spenceley, when did you last see your father?’ ‘This morning, quite early: you know we have breakfast at eight, because we are business people. He gave me these pearls that I have on for a birthday present, and though I would much rather have had no presents, they were so beautiful, and I am so weak, that I was in ecstasies with them. But papa said he had very important business in Liverpool, and he might have to go to Manchester too. Still, he is very late,’ she added, as they began to dance again. The waltz was over. Every one was streaming into the supper-room; Helena, with Sebastian, remained in the ball-room, watching the people out, to see that all went, when voices made themselves heard: young men were calling out, ‘I say, Spenceley!’--‘Where’s Fred?’--‘Who’s to sit where?’--‘Fred, Mrs. Spenceley wants to ask you something.’ ‘Where can Fred be?’ exclaimed Helena, craning her neck to look round. ‘It is very strange in him to go away just now, when he ought to be seeing after things.’ They were standing beside a door of the ball-room; not that leading into the hall, but one which opened into a passage leading to the billiard-room, and thence to the kitchen regions and offices. Almost as Helena spoke, the door was suddenly opened, and a young woman appeared, with frightened face, and widely distended eyes, who, seeing Helena, began, after the manner of her kind, to wring her hands, and exclaim, in much agitation, ‘Oh, Miss Spenceley! Where’s missis? Oh, how dreadful! Oh!’ ‘What is the matter?’ demanded Helena in a clear, decided voice. ‘Oh--master, m’! He’s----’ ‘Stop!’ said Sebastian, suddenly and sternly, as he took the girl’s arm, and gave it a little shake, to restore her to her senses. ‘Don’t make such a noise! Miss Spenceley, wait here a moment. Come here!’ he added to the girl--one of the housemaids--as he drew her into the passage, and closed the door. ‘Now, what is the matter? Your master has returned. I saw him. Is he ill?’ ‘Oh, sir,’ she said, with an hysterical sob, ‘he’s dead! He’s lying on the sofa in his room, and----’ ‘Dead!’ repeated Sebastian, and he knew in a moment what it meant. ‘Where is Mr. Fred? Is he with him?’