‘So what?’ retorted Stephen. ‘Perhaps he’s fed up with the human race, and who shall blame him?’

‘Don’t joke, old chap! I’m afraid something must be wrong. I think we ought to break down the door.’

‘There isn’t a sound to be heard, sir,’ Ford said, his ear to the crack. ‘I’ve called repeatedly, Mr Stephen.’

Stephen raised his brows. ‘Oh? Uncle Nat! Uncle Nat, are you all right?’

There was no answer. Frowning, Stephen set his shoulder to the door. Under the combined efforts of himself and Ford, the lock burst at last, and both men were precipitated into the room.

It was a large, wainscoted apartment, with a four-poster bed, and heavy black oak furniture. The curtains had been drawn across the windows, and the lights were turned on. A red fire glowed in the hearth, and not far from it, beside a ladder-back chair, Nathaniel Herriard lay on the floor, with his head on his arm, as though asleep.

‘Good God, he must have fainted!’ Stephen exclaimed, striding forward, and dropping to his knees beside Nathaniel. ‘Get some brandy, Ford! Don’t stand there staring!’

Joseph came bustling up in a twitter of concern. ‘Oh dear, how can this have happened? Nat, old man, Nat!’

‘It’s no use yapping at him,’ Stephen said, looking rather white. ‘He’s dead.’

‘Stephen!’ gasped Joseph. ‘Dead? Nonsense! He can’t be! He’s fainted, that’s all!’

Stephen rose from his knees. ‘Feel him,’ he said crudely.

‘No, no, no, I won’t believe it!’ Joseph stammered, in his turn kneeling beside Nathaniel’s body, and picking up one of his lifeless hands. ‘Fetch a mirror! If we hold it in front of his lips –’

‘You fool, can’t you see he’s dead?’ Stephen snapped.

Joseph gave a moan, and began distractedly to chafe the hand he held. ‘But how could he be? He wasn’t ill, Stephen! Nat, my dear Nat!’

‘I don’t know. Stroke, I suppose. What do we do now?’

‘A doctor, quickly! No, no, he can’t be dead!’

‘Yes, I suppose we ought to send for a doctor,’ Stephen said, his voice jumpy under its studied nonchalance. ‘Ford had better ring up. Cheerful Christmas party, yours, Joe.’

‘Don’t!’ Joseph begged, in broken tones.

The valet came hurrying back into the room with the brandy decanter, and a glass, but was checked on the threshold by Stephen, who said: ‘That won’t be wanted. He’s dead. Go and ring up his doctor, will you?’

‘Dead, sir?’ said Ford, turning a sickly colour. ‘Not the master, Mr Stephen?’

‘Who else, fool? On second thoughts, you can give me that brandy. Go and get hold of a doctor, and be quick about it, see?’

‘Ford!’ Joseph said, in a strangled voice. ‘Say nothing of this to anyone!’

‘Why not?’ demanded Stephen. ‘They’ve got to know. Not proposing to carry on with your blasted festivities, are you?’

‘Stephen, Stephen, you are in the presence of death!’

‘That’s what I told you,’ Stephen replied hardly, pouring himself out some brandy. ‘Unnerving, isn’t it?’