"You heard nothing?" said the doctor.
"Nothing at all. I went to bed at the usual time, sir," said the
butler--"half-past ten--yes, sir, I've the chaise waiting; won't you
come in that, and I can tell you as we drive over?"
"Yes; all right," said the doctor, and five minutes later they were
rattling along the road towards the Hall.
"Now, go on," said North. "Yes, sir; I went to bed as usual, and slept
very soundly till about an hour ago, and then I suddenly woke. I don't
know what made me wake; but I did, and somehow began thinking, as I've
often thought before, about the plate in the pantry, and whether it was
safe."
"Don't you sleep in the pantry?"
"No, sir; it's so damp. So I lay telling myself it was all nonsense and
fancy; but the more I thought so, the more uncomfortable I grew, till I
could stand it no longer, and I got up, slipped on my trousers and
great-coat, and went to the top of the stairs, where I felt quite a
chill, as I knew something was not as it should be, for the lamp was not
turned out on the hall table."
"What lamp?"
"The hall lamp that Sir Luke always puts out himself when he goes up to
bed."
"Where do you say you left him last night?"
"In the billiard-room, sir, playing with Mr Tom, sir."
"Yes; go on."
"So I went down, sir; and there saw through the baize door that the lamp
was burning at the end of the passage at the foot of the billiard-room
stairs."
"Yes."
"And as soon as I got through the baize door, there, under the lamp, lay
my poor master, all like of a heap."
"What did you do?"
"Ran to him, and tried to put him in a more comfortable position, sir;
but--"
"Yes; I understand."
"Then I rushed up and called Mr Tom, sir; and we went to the squire
together, and rang the bells and alarmed the house. Then, as soon as
the boy had put the horse in the chaise, sir, I drove over to fetch
you."
"But did you do nothing to try and revive him?"
"Oh! yes, sir; but--"
"I understand," said the doctor. "And Mr Tom?"
"He couldn't believe it, sir. He said he played billiards with the
squire for some time, and then grew tired and went to bed, leaving him
knocking the balls about, and it's all very plain, sir. I tell you of
course, though I wouldn't say so to another soul, poor Sir Luke used to
take a great deal too much. I filled the spirit stand only this
morning, and the brandy decanter was quite empty. He had a deal too, at
dinner, before."
"And you think he pitched downstairs, Smith?"
"Yes, sir; that is my belief," said the butler; "and Mr Tom seemed to
think so too."
They reached the Hall to find every one in a state of the most intense
excitement, but an ominous silence reigning through the place.
"Thank goodness you've come at last," cried a familiar voice, and Tom
hurried to meet North. "Pray be quick; he is insensible still."
The doctor looked at the young man curiously.
"Where is he?"
"We carried him into the dining-room, and laid him on a sofa; but he has
not stirred since. I'm afraid something is broken."
As he spoke he led North into the dining-room, where the candles were
burning, the shutters were closed, and curtains drawn; and there, upon a
couch in the middle of the room, lay Sir Luke Candlish, as his brother
had said, without having moved since he had been borne carefully in.
The doctor's examination was short, and Tom Candlish stood looking on,
apparently too much overcome to speak.
"Well," he said at last, "is he very bad? Is anything broken?"
The doctor raised his eyebrows, and could have replied "his neck," but
he said simply: "Bad, sir? Can you not see that he is dead?"
"Dead?" ejaculated Tom; and his jaw dropped, while his face assumed a
look of intense horror.
"Yes, sir. The butler's theory seems to be quite correct. Sir Luke
must have pitched headlong from the top of the stairs to the bottom."
"And there is no hope?"
The doctor shook his head, and laid his hand upon the young man's arm,
signing to him to quit the room.
Tom followed mechanically.
"So horrible!" he said, as soon as they were in the drawing-room. "We
were playing billiards together till late last night, while now--Yes,
what is it?"
"I beg pardon. _Sir Thomas_," said the old butler softly, "the
housekeeper said would you and Dr North like a cup of tea?"
"Sir Thomas!" The title made Tom Candlish thrill as he stood gazing at
the speaker. So soon! _Le Roi est mort! Vive le Roi_!
He was Sir Thomas Candlish. The estate was his and the rent-roll of at
least five thousand a year. Last night he was enraged at the
possibility of trouble arising from Thompson. Now he was a free man: he
was rich.
And his brother?
It was his secret. And why should he trouble about the sudden death?
It was an accident, and his own counsel could easily be kept. There was
none to reveal the truth. The dead could never speak.
As he mused like this, and the butler brought in the tea, Dr North was
lost in a fit of musing, for, like a flash, the scientific fancy upon
which he had so long pondered came to him, so that for the moment he
stood breathless and gazing wildly at the door which seemed to open
before him.
The idea was bewildering. Leo had bidden her suitor distinguish himself
as the price at which her love was to be won; and the more he thought,
the more the idea shone out, dazzling him by its intense light--shining
into the dark places of his soul.
What was his theory? That if a hale, hearty man were suddenly cut off
by some accident, and apparently dead, could he arrest decay, Nature
herself would repair the injury done, even as a fractured bone rapidly
knits together and becomes stronger than before.
Here, then, was a hale, hearty man suddenly cut down; he was the medical
man in attendance, and the opportunity served for restoring this man to
life. Why should he not make his first essay now?
The idea grew more terrible in its intensity hour by hour. It was his
chance if he would grasp it. Impious? No, not more so than performing
an operation or trying to save a sufferer from death. But he was dead.
"What we call dead," muttered North; "but why not suspended animation?
For her sake, for my own fame, to achieve a success such as the world
has not heard of before, I must--I will make the essay."
"But how?"
"And suppose I make him live once more--what then?"
The idea blinded him, and he covered his eyes to think.