"He couldn't believe it, sir. He said he played billiards with the squire for some time, and then grew tired and went to bed, leaving him knocking the balls about, and it's all very plain, sir. I tell you of course, though I wouldn't say so to another soul, poor Sir Luke used to take a great deal too much. I filled the spirit stand only this morning, and the brandy decanter was quite empty. He had a deal too, at dinner, before." "And you think he pitched downstairs, Smith?" "Yes, sir; that is my belief," said the butler; "and Mr Tom seemed to think so too." They reached the Hall to find every one in a state of the most intense excitement, but an ominous silence reigning through the place. "Thank goodness you've come at last," cried a familiar voice, and Tom hurried to meet North. "Pray be quick; he is insensible still." The doctor looked at the young man curiously. "Where is he?" "We carried him into the dining-room, and laid him on a sofa; but he has not stirred since. I'm afraid something is broken." As he spoke he led North into the dining-room, where the candles were burning, the shutters were closed, and curtains drawn; and there, upon a couch in the middle of the room, lay Sir Luke Candlish, as his brother had said, without having moved since he had been borne carefully in. The doctor's examination was short, and Tom Candlish stood looking on, apparently too much overcome to speak. "Well," he said at last, "is he very bad? Is anything broken?" The doctor raised his eyebrows, and could have replied "his neck," but he said simply: "Bad, sir? Can you not see that he is dead?" "Dead?" ejaculated Tom; and his jaw dropped, while his face assumed a look of intense horror. "Yes, sir. The butler's theory seems to be quite correct. Sir Luke must have pitched headlong from the top of the stairs to the bottom." "And there is no hope?" The doctor shook his head, and laid his hand upon the young man's arm, signing to him to quit the room. Tom followed mechanically. "So horrible!" he said, as soon as they were in the drawing-room. "We were playing billiards together till late last night, while now--Yes, what is it?" "I beg pardon. _Sir Thomas_," said the old butler softly, "the housekeeper said would you and Dr North like a cup of tea?" "Sir Thomas!" The title made Tom Candlish thrill as he stood gazing at the speaker. So soon! _Le Roi est mort! Vive le Roi_! He was Sir Thomas Candlish. The estate was his and the rent-roll of at least five thousand a year. Last night he was enraged at the possibility of trouble arising from Thompson. Now he was a free man: he was rich. And his brother? It was his secret. And why should he trouble about the sudden death? It was an accident, and his own counsel could easily be kept. There was none to reveal the truth. The dead could never speak.