himself to bed, and, after drowsily gazing some minutes on the dying
embers of the fire, which threw a dim ghastly light over the chamber,
fell fast asleep. The clock struck the first hour of morning, and in
that house all seemed still.

The next morning, Maltravers was disturbed from his slumber by De
Montaigne, who, arriving, as was often his wont, at an early hour from
his villa, had found Ernest's note of the previous evening.

Maltravers rose and dressed himself; and while De Montaigne was yet
listening to the account which his friend gave of his adventure with
Cesarini, and the unhappy man's accusation of his accomplice, Ernest's
servant entered the room very abruptly.

"Sir," said he, "I thought you might like to know. What is to be done?
The whole hotel is in confusion, Mr. Howard has been sent for, and Lord
Doltimore. So very strange, so sudden!"

"What is the matter? Speak plain."

"Lord Vargrave, sir,--poor Lord Vargrave--"

"Lord Vargrave!"

"Yes, sir; the master of the hotel, hearing you knew his lordship, would
be so glad if you would come down. Lord Vargrave, sir, is dead,--found
dead in his bed!"

Maltravers was rooted to the spot with amaze and horror. Dead! and but
last night so full of life and schemes and hope and ambition.