came a hideous, sickening crash, and the sound of a heavy body hurtling down the stairs.
Collarless, Samuel Titheredge tore open the door and rushed to the head of the stairs. Other doors were opening, and voices in which Gene's nervous tones mingled with higher feminine ones in a chorus of startled cries; but the attorney was oblivious to them. His gaze traveled from the top step of the stairs, which had collapsed like cardboard, to the bottom, where a huddled figure lay.
Leaping down, he raised the head of his friend and called sharply:
"Peters!"
"Sir?" The white, frightened face of the butler peered from the dining-room door.
"Bring some water, quickly! Mr. Lorne has fallen down the stairs."
The ice in the glass tinkled violently as Peters obeyed, and the attorney watched his face closely as he bent over his unconscious master.
"Is—is he hurt bad, sir?" The butler clutched the newel post as he straightened his shaking knees.
"I don't know yet. How is it that you did not hear the sound of his fall and come to his assistance?" He fairly shot the question at Peters, and the latter responded haltingly:
"I didn't hear anything, sir; I was in the back pantry." A slight flush came into his pale cheeks. "I didn't know anything was wrong until you called me."
"Well, go and telephone for the doctor at once." Titheredge passed over the palpable lie. "Then come back here and help me lift him to the couch in the library."
