When it suddenly ceased, an hour before dawn, the storm had already begun to sink, and through a rack of flying and breaking cloud the “Hunter” wheeled westerly to his setting.

CHAPTER VIII

THE LABORS OF THE FOUR

Despite the storm, Sir Walter slept through the night, and did not waken until his man drew the blinds upon a dawn sky so clear that it seemed washed of its blue.  He had directed to be wakened at six o’clock.

“What of Mr. May?” he asked.

“Masters wants to know if we shall call him, Sir Walter.”

“Not if he has returned to his room, but immediately if still in the Grey Room.”

“He’s not in his own room, sir.”

“Then seek him at once.”

The valet hesitated.

“Please, Sir Walter, there’s none much cares to open the door.”

He heard his daughter’s voice outside at the same moment.

“Mr. May has not left the Grey Room, father.”

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” he answered.

Then he rose, dressed partially, and joined her.  She was full of active fear.

“All went well at two o’clock,” she said, “for I crept out to listen.  So did Masters.  Mr. May’s voice sounded clear and steady.”

They found the butler at the door of the Grey Room.  He was pale and mopping his forehead.

“I’ve called to him, but it’s as silent as the grave in there,” he said.  “It’s all up with the gentleman; I know it!”

“He may not be there; he may have gone out,” answered Sir Walter.

Then he opened the door widely and entered.  The electric light still shone and killed the pallid white stare of the morning.  Upon a little table under it they observed Septimus May’s Bible, open at an epistle of St. Paul, but the priest himself was on the floor some little distance away.  He lay in a huddled heap of his vestments.  He had fallen upon his right side apparently, and, though the surplice and cassock which he had worn were disarranged, he appeared peaceful enough, with his cheek on a foot stool, as though disposed deliberately upon the ground to sleep.  His biretta was still upon his head; his eyes were open, and the fret and passion manifested by his face in life had entirely left it.  He looked many years younger, and no emotion of any kind marked his placid countenance.  But he was dead; his heart had ceased to beat and his extremities were already cold.  The room appeared unchanged in every particular.  As in the previous cases, death had come by stealth, yet robbed, as far as the living could judge, of all terror for its victim.

Masters called Caunter and Sir Walter’s valet, who stood at the door.  The latter declined to enter or touch the dead, but Caunter obeyed, and together the two men lifted Mr. May and carried him to his own room.  In a moment it seemed that the house knew what had happened.