Mary stared at him. There was a queer, scared look on his face. “Anything wrong, Mr Beecher?” she asked.

He passed his tongue between his lips, and answered in a shaken voice: “Yes. It's the Master. He's dead.”

Her lips parted, but she could find nothing to say. A kaleidoscope of impressions flashed through her brain. It was shocking, awful, and yet thrilling. There might be an Inquest. She didn't want to have anything to do with it; she wouldn't be out of it for worlds.

Rose came out of Mrs Matthews' room. “Well!” she said. “Anyone would think there was no work to be done in this house! Where are my cans?”

Mary found her voice. “Oh, Rose!” she faltered. “The Master's dead!”

“Somebody's got to tell Them,” said Beecher, glancing at the four shut doors. “I don't know who.”

Rose solved this problem for him. She broke into noisy tears, not because she had been fond of the Master, or disliked the thought of a death in the house, but because she was startled. The sound of her hysterical sobs brought the ready tears to Mary's eyes too. It also brought Miss Matthews out into the hall, with her grey hair in curlers, and an aged flannel dressing-gown huddled round her. She had forgotten her glasses, and she peered shortsightedly at the group before her.

“What is the matter? Rose—is that you, Rose? Disgraceful! If you've broken any of the china it will come out of your wages, and it's no use crying about it. The breakages in this house—”

“Oh, madam!” gulped Mary. “Oh, madam, it's the Master!”

The door next to Miss Matthews' opened. Stella stood yawning on the threshold in peach silk pyjamas, and with her short hair ruffled up like a halo about her face. “What on earth's all the row about?” she inquired fretfully.

“Stella! Your dressing-gown!” exclaimed her aunt.

“I'm all right. Oh, do shut up, Rose! What is it?”