The Honour of His House by Fred M. White

The household was all in commotion now. It was as if the oiled wheels had left the track, as if the whole perfect machinery had fallen out of gear. There were sounds of voices in the house, a confused murmur of servants as they hurried from room to room, and, above it all, the sharp incongruous note of the telephone bell.

They had the stricken man upstairs now. He was lying partially undressed on his bed, still breathing stentoriously. The mottled red on his face had struck a deeper purple hue. Downstairs in the drawing-room, William Saltburn stood by the fireplace, his hands behind his back, reckoning up his chances. He was the only one there who did not seem in the least impressed by the tragedy. By his side stood Philip, tugging irresolutely at his moustache. So far as he was concerned he was profoundly shocked and impressed. He was recalling other conversations which had led up to the distressing scene which he had lately witnessed. He had more than an uneasy impression that his father was at the bottom of the whole ghastly business.