"It cannot be Ronnie," they said.
"It must be Ronnie," amended Helen. "There is no one else in the house."
"_You_ go in," whispered Dick. "I will wait here. Call, if you want me.
Don't startle him. Go in very softly. Be very--er--_you_ know?"
Helen moved forward alone.
She laid her hand upon the handle of the studio door.
She wished the weird music within would cease for one moment, that she
might feel more able to enter.
Cold shivers ran down her spine.
Try as she would, she could not connect that music with Ronnie.
Somebody else was also in the studio, of that she felt quite certain.
She nearly went back to Dick.
Then--rating herself for cowardice--she turned the handle of the door
and passed in.
Dick saw her disappear.
Almost at that moment the 'cello-playing ceased; there was a crash, a
cry from Helen, a silence, and then--a wild shriek from Helen, a sound
holding so much of fear and of horror, that Dick shouted in reply as he
dashed forward.
He found himself in a low room, oak-panelled, lighted only by the
uncertain flame a log-fire. The door by which Dick had centered was to
the left of the fireplace. On the wall at the farther end of the room,
opposite both door and fireplace, hung an immense mirror in a massive
gilt frame.
On the floor in the centre of the room lay Ronnie, unconscious, on his
back. The chair upon which he had been sitting and which had gone over
backwards with him, lay broken beneath him.
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