"Let her lie flat on the floor, ma'am," he said to the cook, "and just you run for a little water, miss, and be spry," was his command to the frightened housemaid, who, pale as ashes, was standing in the doorway. "Is his lordship at home?" said Bulger. "I'd better see him at once. Just run up and say I am here," added he. But not one of the women stirred; all three redoubled their assiduities to the recovering parlourmaid, but each firmly declined to quit the dining-room, on the ground that "it wasn't a woman's place." "Just keep your eye on the roadway, one of you," said the constable, "the sergeant'll be passing directly, and if you see him you'd better call to him." And then Constable Bulger undid the button of his truncheon case, not that he expected to find any one on the premises, but it was as well to be prepared for the worst, and he then ascended the stairs. One of the bedroom doors was wide open, and a horrid sight met his astonished eyes. On the floor lay the murdered master of Azalea Lodge. The face looked like a waxen mask; the lips were bloodless and of an ashen grey, slightly parted, leaving the regular teeth of the dead man painfully apparent. The eyes were wide open and had a terror-stricken look; but the hands were clenched. The dead man lay in a pool of blood, with which his white nightdress was stained in many places. The constable drew his truncheon, looked under the bed and into the dressing-room; a glance at the open safe told him that it had been rifled. Then, without in the slightest degree disturbing the dead man or his surroundings, the constable left the room, locking the door and placing the key in his pocket. He made a perfunctory search through the rest of the house, though he knew full well that the murderer had fled; and as he descended the stairs and rejoined the frightened women, his sergeant, whom the cook had hailed from the dining-room window, appeared upon the scene. In a whisper Bulger communicated to him what had taken place; but while he was yet speaking shrieks and cries were heard from the dining-room. Both men hurriedly entered it. The parlourmaid, mad with terror, was struggling with the other women. "They have murdered him," she shrieked. "Oh God! they have murdered him," she reiterated, as she pointed to a great pink stain upon the ceiling. There was no need to break to them the dreadful news now. The girl continued to shriek and point at the awful stain for some minutes, and then went off in a dead faint. All that morning a little crowd stopped to whisper and point at Azalea Lodge. In vain a special policeman entreated them to move on; they merely passed over to the other side to point and whisper in mingled excitement and curiosity. The red-coated newsvendors did a thriving trade in the neighbourhood on that day.