"Yes," said Paul. "It is a fine work, but it looks as if it were going to dash out some one's brains." "That is what I have always thought whenever I have entered or left that room." "I wish to Heaven it had--both of you," muttered Artis. "A hundred pounds. Good God! A hundred pounds!" The same thought may have entered Katrine D'Enghien's head, for, as they moved towards the drawing-room, she laid her arm affectionately round Lydia's slight waist, and said softly to herself: "A bangle and a hundred pounds! _Mon Dieu_!" Then the drawing-room door closed, and Ramo stood in the dark, leaning over the balustrade of the great well staircase, listening intently till he saw a door open, and a flash of light came out, shining on the round, full face of the old butler, and the keen features of Charles, the footman, the latter bearing a tray of silver chamber candlesticks. Ramo glided away, and the two servants bore the tray to the drawing-room, asked if they would be wanted again, and retired. "Good-night, dearest," cried Katrine, kissing Lydia affectionately. "I congratulate you. I am not jealous. Good-night, Mr Girtle--how tired you must be," she said, shaking hands. "Good-night, Mr Artis. Good-night, Mr Capel. I congratulate you heartily. Good-night!" Five minutes later the great drawing-room was as still as the chamber of the dead, and in the dark house--on staircase and in hall--statue and picture looked on, and the kneeling idols crouched with their eyes closed to what was passing, while the great bronze centaur stood with uplifted club, ready to strike there, where he seemed to be on guard, at his dead master's door. But he struck no blow, and the night passed, and the morning came--a dull, drizzling morning--when the fog hung low, and it was still like night when Preenham, the butler, knocked heavily at Mr Girtle's door. The old lawyer drew the wire, and the night latch allowed the butler to rush in. "Hot water, Preenham?" said the old man. "For Heaven's sake, get up, sir, and I'll call Mr Capel, sir!" panted the butler. "What! Something wrong?" "Yes, sir--quick! I'm afraid there's murder done." CHAPTER EIGHT. THE HORRORS OF A MORN. By the time Mr Girtle was partly dressed and had hurried out on the landing, Paul Capel and Gerard Artis had left their rooms, ready to question him upon the cause of the alarm. "I don't know," he said, trembling. "Preenham came and roused me-- speaking of murder--and, bless my soul! I did not know you were there. Miss Lawrence, too!" Katrine and Lydia had joined them there on the landing of the second floor, where a chamber candlestick on a table was almost the only light, for that which came through the ground-glass at the top of the staircase was so much yellow gloom. "One of the maids--Anne--came and woke me," said Katrine, speaking very calmly, as she looked from one to the other, the most collected of any one present. "She said there was something wrong."