had already appeared behind the black woods that surrounded the little lake, and that was all that he did see.  Though the sound had certainly come in through the open window from this direction, the whole scene was still and empty under the morning light as under the moonlight.  Then the long, rather lackadaisical hand he had laid on a window sill gripped it tighter, as if to master a tremor, and his peering blue eyes grew bleak with fear.  It may seem that his emotion was exaggerated and needless, considering the effort of common sense by which he had conquered his nervousness about the noise on the previous night.  But that had been a very different sort of noise.  It might have been made by half a hundred things, from the chopping of wood to the breaking of bottles.  There was only one thing in nature from which could come the sound that echoed through the dark house at daybreak.  It was the awful articulate voice of man; and it was something worse, for he knew what man.

He knew also that it had been a shout for help.  It seemed to him that he had heard the very word; but the word, short as it was, had been swallowed up, as if the man had been stifled or snatched away even as he spoke.  Only the mocking reverberations of it remained even in his memory, but he had no doubt of the original voice.  He had no doubt that the great bull’s voice of Francis Bray, Baron Bulmer, had been heard for the last time between the darkness and the lifting dawn.

How long he stood there he never knew, but he was startled into life by the first living thing that he saw stirring in that half-frozen landscape.  Along the path beside the lake, and immediately under his window, a figure was walking slowly and softly, but with great composure—­a stately figure in robes of a splendid scarlet; it was the Italian prince, still in his cardinal’s costume.  Most of the company had indeed lived in their costumes for the last day or two, and Fisher himself had assumed his frock of sacking as a convenient dressing gown; but there seemed, nevertheless, something unusually finished and formal, in the way of an early bird, about this magnificent red cockatoo.  It was as if the early bird had been up all night.

“What is the matter?” he called, sharply, leaning out of the window, and the Italian turned up his great yellow face like a mask of brass.

“We had better discuss it downstairs,” said Prince Borodino.

Fisher ran downstairs, and encountered the great, red-robed figure entering the doorway and blocking the entrance with his bulk.

“Did you hear that cry?” demanded Fisher.

“I heard a noise and I came out,” answered the diplomatist, and his face was too dark in the shadow for its expression to be read.

“It was Bulmer’s voice,” insisted Fisher.  “I’ll swear it was Bulmer’s voice.”

“Did you know him well?” asked the other.

The question seemed irrelevant, though it was not illogical, and Fisher could only answer in a random fashion that he knew Lord Bulmer only slightly.