He let the skeleton’s hand slip from his own, swing back into the case, and forthwith closed the glass door upon it; then, leading the way to the cabinet containing the specimens referred to, he unlocked it, and invited Cleek’s opinion of the flint arrow-heads, stone hatchets, and granite utensils within.

For a minute they lingered thus, the old man talking, laughing, exulting in his possessions, the detective examining and pretending to be deeply impressed.  Then, of a sudden, without hint or warning to lessen the shock of it, the uplifted lid of the cabinet fell with a crash from the hand that upheld it, shivering the glass into fifty pieces, and Cleek, screwing round on his heel with a “jump” of all his nerves, was in time to see the figure of his host crumple up, collapse, drop like a thing shot dead, and lie foaming and writhing on the polished floor.

“Dad!  Oh, heavens!  Dad!” The cry was young Bawdrey’s.  He seemed fairly to throw himself across the intervening space and to reach his father in the instant he fell.  “Now you know!  Now you know!” he went on wildly, as Cleek dropped down beside him and began to loosen the old man’s collar.  “It’s like this always; not a hint, not a sign, but just this utter collapse.  My God, what are they doing it with?  How are they managing it, those two?  They’re coming, Headland.  Listen!  Don’t you hear them?”

The crash of the broken glass and the jar of the old man’s fall had swept through all the house, and a moment later, headed by Mrs. Bawdrey herself, all the members of the little house-party came piling excitedly into the room.

The fright and suffering of the young wife seemed very real as she threw herself down beside her husband and caught him to her with a little shuddering cry.  Then her voice, uplifting in a panic, shrilled out a wild appeal for doctor, servants—­help of any kind.  And, almost as she spoke, Travers was beside her, Travers and Forshay and Robert Murdock—­yes, and silly little Mrs. Somerby-Miles, too, forgetting in the face of such a time as this to be anything but helpful and womanly—­and all of these gave such assistance as was in their power.

“Help me get him up to his own room, somebody, and send a servant post-haste for the doctor,” said Captain Travers, taking the lead after the fashion of a man who is used to command.  “Calm yourself as much as possible, Mrs. Bawdrey.  Here, Murdock, lend a hand and help him.”

“Eh, mon, there is nae help but Heaven’s in sic a case as this,” dolefully responded Murdock, as he came forward and solemnly stooped to obey.  “The puir auld laddie!  The Laird giveth and the Laird taketh awa’, and the weel o’ mon is as naething.”

“Oh, stow your croaking, you blundering old fool!” snapped Travers, as Mrs. Bawdrey gave a heart-wrung cry and hid her face in her hands.  “You and your eternal doldrums!  Here, Bawdrey, lend a hand, old chap.  We can get him upstairs without the assistance of this human trombone, I know.”