“You’d better go down to the factory, quick,” he had said, hoarsely.  “There’s trouble there; your uncle—­”

Robert pushed through the crowd, which made way respectfully for him.  He knelt down beside the wounded man.  “Is he—­” he whispered to Sargent.

“Not yet,” whispered Sargent, “but I’m afraid it’s pretty bad.”

“You here?” Robert said to Ellen.

“Yes,” she answered, “I was passing when I heard the shot.”

“See here,” said Robert, “I don’t know but I am asking a good deal, but will you get into Dr. James’s buggy, and let his man drive you to my aunt’s, and you break it to her?  She likes you.  I must stay with him.  I don’t want her to know it first when he is brought home.”

“Yes, that will be the best way,” said the other physician, who was the one regularly employed by the Lloyds.  “Some one must tell her first, and if she knows this young lady—­”

“I will go,” said Ellen.

Dr. Story whispered something to Ellen as she was getting into the buggy.  Then Dr. James’s man drove her away down the street.

There was a little black mare harnessed to the buggy, and she went with nervous leaps of speed.  When Ellen reached the Lloyd house she saw that it was blazing with light.  Norman Lloyd was fond of brilliant light, and would have every room in his house illuminated from garret to cellar.

As Ellen went up the stone steps she saw a woman’s figure in the room at the right, which moved to an attitude of attention when she rang the bell.

Before Ellen could inquire for Mrs. Lloyd of the maid who answered her ring there was a shrill cry from the room on the right.

“Who is it?  Who is it?” demanded the voice.

Then, before Ellen could speak, Mrs. Lloyd came running out.

“What is it?” she said.  “Tell me quick.  I know something has happened.  Tell me quick.  You came in Dr. James’s buggy, and the man was driving fast.  Tell me.”

“Oh, Mrs. Lloyd,” said Ellen.  Then she could say no more, but the other woman knew.

“Is he dead?” she asked, hoarsely.

“Oh, no, no, not dead.”

“Hurt?”

Ellen nodded, trembling.

“How?”

“He was shot.”

“Who shot him?”

“One of the workmen.  They have him.  Carl Olfsen found him.”

“One of the workmen, when he has always been so good!”

Suddenly Mrs. Lloyd seemed to gather herself together into the strength of action.

“Are they bringing him home?” she asked Ellen, in a sharp, decisive voice.

“I think they must be by this time.”

“Then I’ve got to get ready for him.  Come, quick.”

There was by that time a man and two women servants standing near them, aghast.  Mrs. Lloyd turned to the man.

“Go down to the drug-store and get some brandy, there isn’t any in the house,” said she; “then come back as quick as you can.  Maggie, you see that there is plenty of hot water.  Martha, you and Ellen come up-stairs with me, quick.”