I suppose I must be getting fat, eh, Simcox ?" "Oh, not fat, my lord," murmured Simcox, remonstratingly.
"More--er--comfortable." When the man had finished with him, Heyton lit a cigarette and leant back in his chair--as if he were waiting for something.
He had not to wait long.
A cry rang through the house; it was followed by others; there was the sound of rushing footsteps and voices raised in terror; his door was flung open and Simcox stood on the threshold, his face white, his eyes starting; he gaped at his master speechlessly, and Heyton gaped back at him.
"Well, what the devil is it ?" he asked at last, his face red, his lips quivering.

"What do you mean by rushing in, in this--idiotic fashion ?" "Oh, my lord!" gasped Simcox.

"Something's--something's happened.

Oh, it's awful! It's the Marquess's man--Mr.Jenkins--he's just been to call his lordship and--and--oh, my lord, it's 'orrible!" Heyton rose, gripping the back of the chair.
"What do you mean ?" he demanded.

"What the devil are you talking about ?" "Oh, my lord, the Marquess is dead!" stammered Simcox.
"Dead!" echoed Heyton, his face livid, his whole form shaking as if with palsy.
"Well, Jenkins thinks so, my lord.