"Keep your eyes open, Lowney," he went on. "There's lots to be picked up from servants, before they're really on their guard. Get all you can about Mr. Schuyler's evening habits from the man, Cooper. But go easy with the ladies. It's hard enough for them at best." The valet reappeared with Jepson. This butler was of the accepted type, portly and important, but the staggering news Cooper had evidently told him, had made him a man among men. "What's this?" he said, gravely. "The master dead? Apoplexy?" "No, Jepson. Mr. Schuyler was killed by some one. We don't know who did it." "Killed! Murdered! My God!" The butler spoke in a strong, low voice with no hint of dramatic effect. "How will Mrs. Schuyler bear it?" "How shall we tell her, Jepson?" Mason showed a consultant air, for the butler was so evidently a man of judgment and sense. "We must waken her maid, and let her rouse Mrs. Schuyler. Then the other ladies, Mr. Schuyler's sisters, we must _call_ them." "Yes, Jepson, do all those things, as quickly as you can." But the wait seemed interminable. At last the butler came back, and asked us up to the library, the front room on the floor above. Here a footman was lighting a fire on the hearth, for the house had the chill of the small hours. First came the two sisters. These ladies, though not elderly, were middle-aged, and perhaps, a few years older than their brother. They were austere and prim, of aristocratic features and patrician air. But they were almost hysterical in their excitement. A distressed maid hovered behind them with sal volatile. The ladies were fully attired, but caps on their heads and woolly wraps flung round them bore witness to hasty dressing. "What is it?" cried Miss Rhoda, the younger of the two. "What has happened to Randolph?" I introduced myself to them. I told them, as gently as I could, the bare facts, deeming it wise to make no prevarication. So raptly did they listen and so earnestly did I try to omit horrible details, and yet tell the truth, that I did not hear Mrs. Schuyler enter the room. But she did come in, and heard also, the story as I told it. "Can it not be," I heard a soft voice behind me say, "can it not yet be there is some mistake? Who says that man is my husband?" I turned to see the white face and clenched hands of Randolph Schuyler's widow. She was holding herself together, and trying to get a gleam of hope from uncertainty. If I had felt pity and sorrow for her before I saw her, it was doubly poignant now. Ruth Schuyler was one of those gentle, appealing women, helplessly feminine in emergency. Her frightened, grief-stricken eyes looked out of a small, pale face, and her bloodless lips quivered as she caught them between her teeth in an effort to preserve her self-control.