"Of _course_," Sims replied in a surprised tone of voice. "I thought that he might have been tired by the journey from London." . . . So it was true then! Lothian was drunk. The thing was obvious. But this was a good and loyal fellow, not to give his master away. Morton Sims liked that. He made a note that poor beery Tumpany should have half a sovereign on the morrow, when he was sober. Then the two men turned in through the gates of the Old House. The front door was wide open to the night. The light which flowed out from the tall lamp upon an oak table in the hall cut into the black velvet of the drive with a sharply defined wedge of orange-yellow. There was something ominous in this wide-set door of a frightened house. The doctor walked straight into the hall, a small old-fashioned place panelled in white. To the right another door stood open. In the doorway stood a maid-servant with a frightened face. Beyond her, through the archway of the door, showed the section of a singularly beautiful room. The maid started. "Oh, you've come, sir!" she said--"in here please, sir." The doctor followed the girl into the lit room. This is what he saw:-- A room with the walls covered with canvas of a delicate oat-meal colour up to the height of seven feet. Above this a moulded beading of wood which had been painted vermilion--the veritable post-box red. Above this again a frieze of pure white paper. At set intervals upon the canvas were brilliant colour-prints in thin gold frames. The room was lit with many candles in tall holders of silver. At one side of it was a table spread for supper, gleaming with delicate napery and cut glass, peaches in a bowl of red earthenware, ruby-coloured wine in a jug of German glass with a lid of pewter shaped like a snake's head. At the other side of the room was a huge Chesterfield couch, upholstered in broad stripes of black and olive linen. The still figure of a man in a tweed suit lay upon the couch. There was blood upon his face and clotted rust-like stains upon his loosened collar. A washing-bowl of stained water stood upon the green carpet. Upon a chair, by the head of the couch a tall woman with shining yellow hair was sitting. She wore a low-cut evening dress of black, pearls were about the white column of her throat, a dragon fly of emeralds set in aluminium sparkled in her hair, and upon her wrists were heavy Moorish bracelets of oxydised silver studded with the bird's egg blue of the turquoise stone. For an instant, not of the time but of thought, the doctor was startled. Then, as the stately and beautiful woman rose to meet him, he understood. She had decked herself, adorned her fair body with all the braveries she had so that she might be lovely and acceptable to her husband's eyes as he came home to her. Came home to her . . . like this! Morton Sims had shaken the slim hand, murmured some words of condolence, and hastened to the motionless figure upon the couch.