"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