“Well, if I were you, I would ring the bell and go openly; have the servant announce you! I wouldn’t creep in with a key.” But Mrs. Trelane took no notice. It was a dark afternoon, and Onslow Place was very quiet. No one saw her as she opened Lord Abbotsford’s door with the little latch-key. She met no one as she went softly up the carpeted stair to his sitting-room. She had been there before once, and knew the way. The room was strangely quiet as she opened the door. It was all hung with pale pink, and furnished in a darker pink brocade; not like a man’s room at all. There were bowls of hothouse carnations everywhere, each great flower a fiery rose; and the silver lamps were already lit under their rose-colored shades. Mrs. Trelane shut the door behind her, and as she did so a faint rustle in the next room could easily have passed unheard. “Abbotsford,” she said softly, looking very young and handsome in her plain tailor-made gown, “are you here?” A screen was drawn round the hearth, with room enough for a sofa between it and the fire. A table stood by the window, and at first Mrs. Trelane paid no heed to it, as she walked round the screen. Abbotsford was on the sofa asleep, his head lying on his arm. “Wake up, I’m here,” she said lightly. “I don’t wonder you’re asleep. Your flowers are too strong; they smell just like bitter almonds.” Lord Abbotsford never moved; and once more the strange quiet of the room struck on Helen Trelane’s nerves. “What’s the matter with you?” she said sharply. “Why can’t you wake up? And what are you doing with all that?” For the letter on the table had caught her eye; money, notes, and gold, in an open purple velvet box; diamonds, a necklace, bracelets, a tiara. Her heart gave a leap. Had he indeed repented and sent for her to give her these? Something else on the table softened her heart, too: the only photograph she had ever had taken for years; it had been done for Abbotsford. She remembered how he had taken the negative from the photographer and broken it, for fear she might have more printed. He had loved her then. Oh, if she could only rouse that love again for one half-hour! The silk linings of her dark purple dress rustled as she moved toward him where he slept, and sank on her knees beside him. “Wake up, sleepy boy, you sent for me, you know.” His hand was strangely cool as she took it in hers; the next instant she had jumped to her feet. “My God!” she cried, trembling like a leaf. “It can’t be.” She lifted the arm that was over the face, and kept, she never knew how, from shrieking. John Inglesby, Lord Abbotsford, was dead--dead in the pink, luxurious chamber where the flowers smelled of almonds, where there was nothing to tell how he died. Was it a trap? Had he killed himself on purpose? Sent for her?