Lord Galloway in an indescribable temper, at once virulent and
vague. The blue-and-silver garden, like a scene in a theatre,
seemed to taunt him with all that tyrannic tenderness against
which his worldly authority was at war. The length and grace of
the Irishman's stride enraged him as if he were a rival instead of
a father; the moonlight maddened him. He was trapped as if by
magic into a garden of troubadours, a Watteau fairyland; and,
willing to shake off such amorous imbecilities by speech, he
stepped briskly after his enemy. As he did so he tripped over
some tree or stone in the grass; looked down at it first with
irritation and then a second time with curiosity. The next
instant the moon and the tall poplars looked at an unusual sight
--an elderly English diplomatist running hard and crying or
bellowing as he ran.

His hoarse shouts brought a pale face to the study door, the
beaming glasses and worried brow of Dr. Simon, who heard the
nobleman's first clear words. Lord Galloway was crying: "A corpse
in the grass--a blood-stained corpse." O'Brien at last had gone
utterly out of his mind.

"We must tell Valentin at once," said the doctor, when the
other had brokenly described all that he had dared to examine.
"It is fortunate that he is here"; and even as he spoke the great
detective entered the study, attracted by the cry. It was almost
amusing to note his typical transformation; he had come with the
common concern of a host and a gentleman, fearing that some guest
or servant was ill. When he was told the gory fact, he turned
with all his gravity instantly bright and businesslike; for this,
however abrupt and awful, was his business.