“It may be that,” she admitted doubtfully.  “On the other hand, don’t let’s run any risk.  I should hate to find an affinity, and all that sort of thing, after marriage—­divorce in these days is such shocking bad form.  Besides, honestly, Nigel, I don’t feel frivolous enough to think about marriage just now.  I have the feeling that even while the clock is ticking we are moving on to terrible things.  I can’t tell you quite what it is.  I carried my life in my hands during those last few days abroad.  I dare say this is the reaction.”

He smiled reassuringly.

“After all, you are safe at home now, dear,” he reminded her, “and I really am very fond of you, Maggie.”

“And I’m quite absurdly fond of you, Nigel,” she acknowledged.  “It makes me feel quite uncomfortable when I reflect that I shall probably have to order you to make love to some one else before the week is out.”

“I shall do nothing of the sort,” he declared firmly.  “I am not good at that sort of thing.  And who is she, anyhow?”

They were interrupted by a sudden knock at the door—­not the discreet tap of a well-bred domestic, but a flurried, almost an imperative summons.  Before either of them could reply, the door was opened and Brookes, the elderly butler, presented himself upon the threshold.  Even before he spoke, it was clear that he brought alarming news.

“Will you step down to the library at once, sir?” he begged, addressing Nigel.

“What is the matter, Brookes?” Maggie demanded anxiously.

“I fear that his lordship is not well,” the man replied.

They all hurried out together.  Brookes was evidently terribly perturbed and went on talking half to himself without heeding their questions.

“I thought at first that his lordship must have fainted,” he said.  “I heard a queer noise, and when I went in, he had fallen forward across the table.  Parkins has rung for Doctor Wilcox.”

“What sort of a noise?” Nigel asked.

“It sounded like a shot,” the man faltered.

They entered the library, Nigel leading the way.  Lord Dorminster was lying very much as Brookes had described him, but there was something altogether unnatural in the collapse of his head and shoulders and his motionless body.  Nigel spoke to him, touched him gently, raised him at last into a sitting position.  Something on which his right hand seemed to have been resting clattered on to the carpet.  Nigel turned around and waved Maggie back.

“Don’t come,” he begged.

“Is it a stroke?” she faltered.

“I am afraid that he is dead,” Nigel answered simply.

They went out into the hall and waited there in shocked silence until the doctor arrived.  The latter’s examination lasted only a few seconds.  Then he pointed to the telephone.

“This is very terrible,” he said.  “I am afraid you had better ring up Scotland Yard, Mr. Kingley.  Lord Dorminster appears either to have shot himself, as seems most probable,” he added, glancing at the revolver upon the carpet, “or to have been murdered.”