blazed with light, but they illuminated singularly little the yellow murk of the roadway.  The interiors were sharply clear.  We could see swarms of black things, seething with ant-like activity amid a phantasmagoria of colours, draperies, curtains, flashes of white linen, streaks of red and yellow meat gallant with rosettes and garlands, instantaneous, glistening vistas of gold, silver and crystal, warm reflections of mahogany and walnut; on the pavements an agglutinated yet moving mass by the shop fronts, the inner stream a garish pink ribbon of faces, the outer a herd of subfuse brown.  And in the roadway, through the translucent olive, the swirling traffic seemed like armies of ghosts mightily and dashingly charioted.

The darkness had deepened when we, at last, drew up at the mansions in St. John’s Wood.  No lights were lit in the vestibule, and the hall-porter emerged as from a cavern of despair.  He opened the car-door and touched his peaked cap.  I could see from the man’s face that he had been expecting us.  He knew us, of course, as constant visitors of the Bolderos.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Don’t you know, sir?”

“No.”

He glanced at Barbara, as if afraid to give her the shock of his news, and bent forward and whispered to me: 

“Mr. Boldero’s dead, sir.”

I don’t remember clearly what happened then.  I have a vague memory of the man accompanying us in the lift and giving some unintelligible account of things.  I was stunned.  We had interpreted the ambiguous telegram in all other ways than this.  Adrian was dead.  That was all I could think of.  The only coherent remark I heard the man make was that it was a dreadful thing to happen at Christmas.  Barbara gripped my hand tight and did not say a word.  The next phase I remember only too vividly.  When the flat door opened, in a blaze of electric light, it was like a curtain being lifted on a scene of appalling tragedy.  As soon as we entered we were sucked into it.  A horrible hospital smell of anaesthetics, disinfectants—­I know not what—­greeted us.

The maid Ellen who had admitted us, red-eyed and scared, flew down the corridor into the kitchen, whence immediately afterwards emerged a professional nurse, who, carrying something, flitted into Doria’s room.  From the spare room came for a moment an elderly woman whom we did not know.  The study door was flung wide open—­I noticed that the jamb was splintered.  From the drawing-room came sounds of awful moaning.  We entered and found Adrian’s mother alone, helpless with grief.  Barbara sat by her and took her in her arms and spoke to her.  But she could tell us nothing.  I heard a man’s step in the hall and Jaffery and I went out.  He was a young man, very much agitated; he looked relieved at seeing us.

“I am a doctor,” said he, “I was called in.  The usual medical man is apparently away for Christmas.  I’m so glad you’ve come.  Is there a Mrs. Freeth here?”