CHAPTER XXXII.

By a stroke, as of Heaven’s lightning, the house of joy was turned into the house of mourning.

They bore the dead man to his room, plain and simple, even in that mansion of luxury; the guests departed, some of them flying as from a pestilence, some of them lingering with white and dazed faces and hushed whispers, and Stafford was left alone with his dead; for he had shut the door even upon Howard, who paced up and down outside, not daring to force his sympathy upon his beloved friend.

The morning papers gave a full account of the grand ball, the announcement of Sir Stephen’s peerage, and the sudden and tragic ending to a life which had been lived full in the public gaze, a life of struggle and success, which had been cut down at the very moment of extreme victory.  They recited the man’s marvellous career, and held it up to the admiration and emulation of his fellow Englishmen.  They called him a pioneer, one who had added to the Empire, they hinted at a public funeral—­and they all discreetly ascribed telling upon a weak heart.  Sir Stephen’s precarious condition had been known, they said, to his medical adviser, who had for some time past tried to persuade him to relinquish his arduous and nerve-racking occupations, and to take repose.

Not a word was said about the cablegram which had been delivered to him a few moments before his terribly sudden death; for it was felt by all that nothing should be allowed to blur the glory of such a successful career—­not for the present, at any rate.

There was no need for an inquest; the great physician who had been in attendance, quite vainly, was prepared to certify to the cause of death, and Stafford’s feelings were spared thus far.  Someone high in authority suggested the idea of a public funeral, through Howard, whom alone Stafford saw, but Stafford declined the honour, and the first Earl of Highcliffe was carried to his last rest as quietly as circumstances would permit.

The press and the men of the city, with whom the dead man had worked, kept silence about the catastrophe that had happened until after the funeral; then rumours arose, at first in whispers and then more loudly, and paragraphs and leaderettes appeared in the papers hinting at something wrong in connection with Lord Highcliffe’s last great scheme, and calling for an enquiry.

The morning after the funeral, Howard found Stafford sitting in a darkened room of the great house, his head in his hand, a morning paper lying open on the table before him.  He raised his white and haggard face as Howard entered and took his friend’s hand in silence.  Howard glanced at the paper and bit his lip.

“Yes,” said Stafford, “I have been reading this.  You have seen it?”

Howard nodded.

“You know what it means?  I want you to tell me.  I have been putting off the question day by day, selfishly; I could not face it until—­until he was buried.  But I can put it off no longer; I must know now.  What was that cablegram which they brought him just before—­which you tried to keep from him?”