Having emptied his revolver, Lord Emsworth said, “Who is there?  Speak!” in rather an aggrieved tone, as though he felt he had done his part in breaking the ice, and it was now for the intruder to exert himself and bear his share of the social amenities.

The Efficient Baxter did not reply.  Nothing in the world could have induced him to speak at that moment, or to make any sound whatsoever that might betray his position to a dangerous maniac who might at any instant reload his pistol and resume the fusillade.  Explanations, in his opinion, could be deferred until somebody had the presence of mind to switch on the lights.  He flattened himself on the carpet and hoped for better things.  His cheek touched the corpse beside him; but though he winced and shuddered he made no outcry.  After those six shots he was through with outcries.

A voice from above, the bishop’s voice, said:  “I think you have killed him, Clarence.”

Another voice, that of Colonel Horace Mant, said:  “Switch on those dashed lights!  Why doesn’t somebody?  Dash it!”

The whole strength of the company began to demand light.

When the lights came, it was from the other side of the hall.  Six revolver shots, fired at quarter past two in the morning, will rouse even sleeping domestics.  The servants’ quarters were buzzing like a hive.  Shrill feminine screams were puncturing the air.  Mr. Beach, the butler, in a suit of pink silk pajamas, of which no one would have suspected him, was leading a party of men servants down the stairs—­not so much because he wanted to lead them as because they pushed him.

The passage beyond the green-baize door became congested, and there were cries for Mr. Beach to open it and look through and see what was the matter; but Mr. Beach was smarter than that and wriggled back so that he no longer headed the procession.  This done, he shouted: 

“Open that door there!  Open that door!  Look and see what the matter is.”

Ashe opened the door.  Since his escape from the hall he had been lurking in the neighborhood of the green-baize door and had been engulfed by the swirling throng.  Finding himself with elbowroom for the first time, he pushed through, swung the door open and switched on the lights.

They shone on a collection of semi-dressed figures, crowding the staircase; on a hall littered with china and glass; on a dented dinner gong; on an edited and improved portrait of the late Countess of Emsworth; and on the Efficient Baxter, in an overcoat and rubber-soled shoes, lying beside a cold tongue.  At no great distance lay a number of other objects—­a knife, a fork, some bread, salt, a corkscrew and a bottle of white wine.

Using the word in the sense of saying something coherent, the Earl of Emsworth was the first to speak.  He peered down at his recumbent secretary and said: 

“Baxter!  My dear fellow—­what the devil?”