The Case for the Crown by Fred M. White — Read

There was no disorder or confusion in that perfectly appointed household. To Cecil, standing dumb and frozen there, in the hideous amazement of the moment, came the strange feeling that this was all part and parcel of a well-ordered scheme, and that she had expected it in the ordinary course of things. And even in that trying moment behind the horror of it was a certain sense of freedom and knowledge that her chains were broken that amounted almost to exultation. She was strangely calm, so calm and collected as to be absolutely amazed at her own self-possession. She had never cared for this man, she had gone to him, hating and loathing him, and perfectly comprehending what manner of man he was. So there need be no self-deception, no mockery of grief or even a passing regret. Robert Molyneux had died practically by his own hand. He had drunk, and drugged himself into his grave, he had piled up the horrors on his own head knowing perfectly well what the result of the self-constituted tragedy would be. No doubt that last dose of the drug had been too much for a heart enfeebled and strained to breaking point by a long course of dissipation.

And though the master of the house lay there dead and cold, the establishment was going on smoothly and regularly as if nothing out of the common had happened. All the servants, with the exception of Barton, had gone to bed, and, for the moment, at any rate, there was no occasion to disturb them. On the hearthrug in front of the fireplace Molyneux's favourite spaniel lay at full length fast asleep; in the window a parrot in a gilded cage climbed restlessly up the bars and clicked his iron beak in imitation of a pair of nut-crackers. Robert Molyneux was dead, but the world was going on just the same.