Mary left them, and they discussed the probable chances of the detective without convincing each other.  Henry, who had been much impressed by Hardcastle, argued in his favor; but Septimus May was obdurate, and Sir Walter evidently inclined to agree with him.

“The young men think the old men fools, and the old men know the young ones are,” said Sir Walter.

“But he is not young, uncle; he’s forty.  He told me so.”

“I thought him ten years less, and he spoke with the dogmatism of youth.”

“Only on that subject.”

“Which happens to be the one subject of all others on which we have a right to demand an open and reverent mind,” said the clergyman.

Henry noticed that Sir Walter spoke almost spitefully.

“Well, at any rate, he thought rather small beer of the Grey Room.  He felt quite sure that the secret lay outside it.  He was going to exhaust the possibilities of the place in no time.”

As he spoke the gong sounded, and Prince, pricking his ears, led the way to the open French window of the dining-room.

“Call our friend, Henry,” said his uncle.  And young Lennox, glad of the opportunity, entered the house.  He desired a word with Hardcastle in private, and ascended to join him.

The door of the Grey Room was still closed, and Henry found some obstacle within that prevented it from yielding to his hand.  At once disturbed by this incident, he did not stand upon ceremony.  He pushed the door, which gave before him, and he perceived that a heavy chair had been thrust against it.  His noisy entrance challenged no response, and, looking round, it appeared for an instant that the room was empty; but, lowering his eyes, he saw first the detective’s open notebook and stylograph lying upon the ground, then he discovered Peter Hardcastle himself upon his face with his arms stretched out before him.  He lay beside the hearth, motionless.

Lennox stooped, supported, and turned him over.  He was still warm and relaxed in every limb, but quite unconscious and apparently dead.  An expression of surprise marked his face, and the corner of each open eye had not yet lost its lustre, but the pupil was much dilated.

CHAPTER VI

THE ORDER FROM LONDON

Henry Lennox suffered as he had not suffered even during the horrors of war.  For the first time in his life he felt fear.  He lowered the unconscious man to the ground, and knew that he was dead, for he had looked on sudden death too often to feel in any doubt.  Others, however, were not so ready to credit this, and after he hastened downstairs with his evil message, both Sir Walter and Masters found it hard to believe him.

When he descended, his uncle and May were standing at the dining room door, waiting for him and Peter Hardcastle.  Mary had just joined them.

“He’s dead!” was all the youth could say; then, thoroughly unnerved, he fell into a chair and buried his face in his hands.