“Of course.”

There was something to be done.  All grasped at the doing of it in sheer relief—­except one.  For as the men rose, saying; one “I’ll look after it”; and another “No, you’d better leave it to me,” Luttrell’s voice broke in upon them all, with a sort of dreadful fatality in the quiet sound of it.

“Where is Mrs. Croyle now?” he asked, and he was as white as the tablecloth in front of him.

There was no further movement towards the door.  Slowly the men resumed their seats.  A silence followed in which person after person looked at Stella’s empty place as though an intensity of gaze would materialise her there.  Miranda was the first bravely to break through it.

“She hasn’t come down yet,” she said, and Millie Splay seized upon the words.

“No, she never comes down for breakfast—­never has all this week.”

“Yes, that’s true,” returned Dennis Brown with an attempt at cheerfulness.

“Besides—­what makes—­the idea—­impossible,” said Sir Chichester, “is the publication this morning.  There wouldn’t have been time....  It’s clearly an atrocious piece of malice.”  He was speaking with an obvious effort to convince himself that the monstrous thing was false.  But he collapsed suddenly and once more discomfort and silence reigned in the room.

“Stella’s not well,” Millie Splay took up the tale.  “That’s why she is seldom seen before twelve.  Those headaches of hers——­” and suddenly she in her turn broke off.  She leaned forward and pressed the electric bell upon the tablecloth beside her.  That small trivial action brought its relief, lightened the vague cloud of misgiving which since Luttrell had spoken, had settled upon all.

“You rang, my lady,” said Harper in the doorway.

“Yes, Harper.  We were making some plans for a picnic to-day and we should like to know if Mrs. Croyle will join us.  Can you find out from her maid whether she is awake?”

It was superbly done.  There was not a quaver in Lady Splay’s voice, not a sign of agitation in her manner.

“I’ll inquire, my lady,” replied Harper, and he left the room upon his errand.

“One thing is certain,” Mr. Albany Todd broke in.  “I was watching Harper over your shoulder, Lady Splay.  He hasn’t seen the paragraph.  There’s nothing known of it in the servants’ hall.”

Sir Chichester nodded, and Millie Splay observed: 

“Harper’s so imperturbable that he always inspires me with confidence.  I feel that nothing out of the way could really happen whilst he was in the house.”  And her attitude of tension did greatly relax as she thought, illogically enough, of that stolid butler.  A suggestion made by Martin Hillyard set them to work whilst they waited.

“Let us see if the report is in any of the other papers,” and all immediately were busy with that examination—­except one again.  And that one again, Harry Luttrell.  He sat in his place motionless, his eyes transfixed upon some vision of horror—­as if he knew, Martin said to himself, yes, as if all these questions were futile, as if he knew.