“Who was that?” she began in a high, almost strident voice, totally out of keeping with the sensuous curves of her strange, sweet face.  But the question remained unanswered, for at that moment her attention, as well as that of the men lingering at the gate, was attracted by the sound of hurrying feet and confused cries coming up the hill.

“Murder!  Murder!” was the word panted out by more than one harsh voice; and in another instant a dozen men and boys came rushing into sight in a state of such excitement that the five musicians recoiled from the gate, and one of them went so far as to start back toward the house.  As he did so he noticed a curious thing.  The young woman whom they had all perceived standing in the door a moment before had vanished, yet she was known to possess the keenest curiosity of any one in town.

“Murder!  Murder!” A terrible and unprecedented cry in this old, God-fearing town.  Then came in hoarse explanation from the jostling group as they stopped at the gate:  “Mrs. Webb has been killed!  Stabbed with a knife!  Tell Mr. Sutherland!”

Mrs. Webb!

As the musicians heard this name, so honoured and so universally beloved, they to a man uttered a cry.  Mrs. Webb!  Why, it was impossible.  Shouting in their turn for Mr. Sutherland, they all crowded forward.

“Not Mrs. Webb!” they protested.  “Who could have the daring or the heart to kill her?”

“God knows,” answered a voice from the highway.  “But she’s dead—­ we’ve just seen her!”

“Then it’s the old man’s work,” quavered a piping voice.  “I’ve always said he would turn on his best friend some day.  ’Sylum’s the best place for folks as has lost their wits.  I—­”

But here a hand was put over his mouth, and the rest of the words was lost in an inarticulate gurgle.  Mr. Sutherland had just appeared on the porch.

He was a superb-looking man, with an expression of mingled kindness and dignity that invariably awakened both awe and admiration in the spectator.  No man in the country—­I was going to say no woman was more beloved, or held in higher esteem.  Yet he could not control his only son, as everyone within ten miles of the hill well knew.

At this moment his face showed both pain and shock.

“What name are you shouting out there?” he brokenly demanded.  “Agatha Webb?  Is Agatha Webb hurt?”

“Yes, sir; killed,” repeated a half-dozen voices at once.  “We’ve just come from the house.  All the town is up.  Some say her husband did it.”

“No, no!” was Mr. Sutherland’s decisive though half-inaudible response.  “Philemon Webb might end his own life, but not Agatha’s.  It was the money—­”

Here he caught himself up, and, raising his voice, addressed the crowd of villagers more directly.

“Wait,” said he, “and I will go back with you.  Where is Frederick?” he demanded of such members of his own household as stood about him.