"Come in here," I said, leading her into the dining room. "Tell me all you know of the affair." "Short discovered him just after two o'clock. He was then quite still." "But there may be life," I exclaimed suddenly, and leaving her I rushed up the stairs and into the room where the old man had chatted to me so merrily not many hours before. The instant my gaze fell upon him I knew the truth. Cadaveric rigidity had supervened, and he had long been beyond hope of human aid. His furrowed face was as white as ivory, and his lower jaw had dropped in that manner that unmistakably betrays the presence of death. As the man had described, the sheet was stained with blood. But there was not much, and I was some moments before I discovered the wound. It was just beneath the heart, cleanly cut, and about three-quarters of an inch long, evidently inflicted by some sharp instrument. He had no doubt been struck in his sleep, and with such precision that he had died without being able to raise the alarm. The murderer, whoever he was, had carried the weapon away. I turned and saw Ethelwynn, a pale wan figure in her light gown and shawl, standing on the threshold, watching me intently. She stood there white and trembling, as though fearing to enter the presence of the dead. I made a hasty tour of the room, examining the window and finding it fastened. As far as I could discover, nothing whatever was disturbed. Then I went out to her and, closing the door behind me, said-- "Short must go along to the police station. We must report it." "But is it really necessary?" she asked anxiously. "Think of the awful exposure in the papers. Can't we hush it up? Do, Ralph--for my sake," she implored. "But I can't give a death certificate when a person has been murdered," I explained. "Before burial there must be a _post-mortem_ and an inquest." "Then you think he has actually been murdered?" "Of course, without a doubt. It certainly isn't suicide." The discovery had caused her to become rigid, almost statuesque. Sudden terror often acts thus upon women of her highly nervous temperament. She allowed me to lead her downstairs and back to the dining room. On the way I met Short in the hall, and ordered him to go at once to the police station. "Now, dearest," I said, taking her hand tenderly in mine when we were alone together with the door closed, "tell me calmly all you know of this awful affair." "I--I know nothing," she declared. "Nothing except what you already know. Short knocked at my door and I dressed hastily, only to discover that the poor old gentleman was dead." "Was the house still locked up?" "I believe so. The servants could, I suppose, tell that." "But is it not strange that Mary is still absent?" I remarked, perplexed.