on his lap. Then he turned, "Giles!" he shouted in his nephew's ear. "Confound the fellow, are you asleep? I did think I had heard the worst, but there is worse behind! Lord—this is awful! Giles—you fool—look at the paper."
The young man took the sheet mechanically. The fly jolted, and he could not read. He laid the paper down. "My eyes are dazzled," he said, "I cannot make out the print. Besides, I am indifferent to news."
"You must not be indifferent. The news concerns you particularly."
"I don't care about politics," said Giles irritably, "I am worried, crushed. I have made a mistake—an awful, a fatal mistake."
"This is not about politics at all," shouted his uncle. "Lord! how shall I break the tidings to Miss Inglett? I wish I had brought my wife. Women do these things better than men. But, as we have no cook, Tryphœna is engaged this morning in the kitchen, up to her ears, above her ears, judging from the condition of the top of her head, in work—I must do it. I hope that Miss Inglett has not seen a newspaper this morning."
"Well—then—what is it?" asked young Saltren impatiently.
"What is it? Just this," answered Welsh grimly and with vehemence, "Lord Lamerton is dead."
"Dead!" Giles Saltren was frozen with horror.
"Yes—dead. Found dead near Chillacot, fallen down the cliff whilst on his way to see your father. Of course there are suspicions of foul play. Nothing as yet certain."
"Found dead!" The young man gasped for breath. The muscles of his chest contracted and a pain as though a bayonet had stabbed him shot through his heart. He was suffocating, he gasped for breath. The windows of the cab began to spin round him, the back of the cab with the cushions swung round to the front, and the front lights
