"Yes, Madame," and the trembling footman pushed open the door and felt fumblingly in the dark for the electric switch.
It was only a few seconds, but it seemed an interminable time before the lights flashed on and the great room was illuminated to its furthest corners.
Beatrice, close behind the trembling footman, stood, stunned.
"I knew it was something dreadful!" Blake cried, forgetting in his shock his conventional speech.
Beatrice gave one gasping "Oh!" and covered her face with her hands. But in a moment she nerved herself to the sight, and stared, in a horrified fascination, at the awful scene before her.
At the other end of the long room, in a great, carved armchair, sat Eric Stannard, limp and motionless. From his breast protruded an instrument of some sort, and a small scarlet stain showed on the white expanse of his shirt bosom.
"Is he--is he----" began Beatrice, starting forward to his assistance, when her bewildered eyes took in the rest of the scene.
Behind Stannard, and across the room from one another, were two women. They were Joyce, his wife, and Miss Vernon, a model.
Joyce, only a few feet from her husband's left shoulder, was glaring at Natalie Vernon, with a wild expression of fear and terror, Natalie was huddled against the opposite wall, near the outer door, cowering and trembling, her hands clutching her throat, as if to suppress an involuntary scream.
Unable to take in this startling scene at a glance, Beatrice and Blake stared at the unbelievable tableau before them. The man got his wits together first.
"We must do something," he muttered, starting toward his master. "There is some accident----"
As if by this vitalised into action, the two women behind Stannard came forward, one on either side of him, but only his wife went near to him.
"Eric," she said, faintly, taking his left hand, as it hung at his side. But she got no further. With one glance at his distorted face she sank to the ground almost fainting.
"Who did this, sir?" Blake cried out, standing before Stannard. The dying man attempted to raise his right hand. Shakingly, it pointed toward the beautiful girl, his model.
"Natalie," he said, "not Joyce." The last words were a mere choking gurgle, as his head fell forward and his heart ceased to beat.