“Williams has just come running down in a great state of agitation, sir.” Tredwell paused—a pause of preparation. “I am afraid, sir, the poor young gentleman must have died in his sleep.”
Jimmy and Ronny stared at him.
“Nonsense,” cried Ronny at last. “It’s—it’s impossible. Gerry—” His face worked suddenly. “I’ll—I’ll run up and see. That fool Williams may have made a mistake.”
Tredwell stretched out a detaining hand.
With a queer, unnatural feeling of detachment, Jimmy realised that the butler had the whole situation in hand.
“No, sir, Williams has made no mistake. I have already sent for Dr. Cartwright, and in the meantime I have taken the liberty of locking the door, preparatory to informing Sir Oswald of what has occurred. I must now find Mr. Bateman.”
Tredwell hurried away. Ronny stood like a man dazed.
“Gerry,” he muttered to himself.
Jimmy took his friend by the arm and steered him out through a side door on to a secluded portion of the terrace. He pushed him down on to a seat.
“Take it easy, old son,” he said kindly. “You’ll get your wind in a minute.”
But he looked at him rather curiously. He had had no idea that Ronny was such a friend of Gerry Wade’s.
“Poor old Gerry,” he said thoughtfully. “If ever a man looked fit, he did.”
Ronny nodded.