service of the Catherons--his father before him was butler in this
house. Their honor is his. He starts angrily round now.

"Who was that?" he demands. "Of course Miss Inez knows nothing of
this."

No one had accused her, but he is unconsciously defending her already.

"She must be told at once," he says. "I'll go and tell her myself.
Edwards, draw the curtains, will you, and light the candles?"

He leaves the room. The valet mechanically does as he is bid--the
curtains are drawn, the waxlights illumine the apartment. No one else
stirs. The soft, abundant light falls down upon that tranquil, marble
face--upon that most awful stain of blood.

The butler goes straight up to his young lady's room. Wayward,
passionate, proud Miss Inez may be, but she is very dear to him. He
has carried her in his arms many a time, a little laughing, black-eyed
child. A vague, sickening fear fills him now.

"She hated my lady," he thinks, in a dazed, helpless sort of way;
"everybody knows that. What will she say when she hears this?"

He knocks; there is no reply. He knocks again and calls huskily:

"Miss Inez, are you there? For the dear Lord's sake open the door!"

"Come in!" a voice answers.