Lord Hetton pulled the trigger, there was a sharp click, that was all. His lordship swore a bitter oath, as it flashed through his mind that in his excitement of rage and indignation he had forgotten to withdraw the safety catch.
There was no time to do it now, for the burglar was upon him. Hetton struck the man furiously in the face with the butt of the pistol, but the thief succeeded in avoiding the full force of the blow, and used his knife with murderous dexterity. The pistol dropped from his lordship's failing hand, each man had the other by the throat, and the thief continued to mercilessly hack and stab, for he knew that he was fighting for liberty, and even life. Gradually he forced his victim down upon the floor, he placed his knee upon his chest, and tightened his cruel grip upon the throat of the fallen man. They still glared at each other and struggled on in horrid silence, but gradually the convulsive clutch of Lord Hetton's fingers relaxed, the glare of rage and hate disappeared from his eyes, and its place was taken by a dull leaden stare. For Lord Hetton was dead.
But not for several minutes did the burglar relax his grip of the dead man's throat; and then it dawned upon him that he was a murderer, that in a few short hours justice would be upon his track; and he shuddered with mingled horror and remorse as he mechanically wiped the blade of his knife between his fingers, ere he returned it to its sheath.
The man Parsons had been cool and collected enough before, but now he trembled, and he hurried out upon the landing with anxiety, to listen if there was any movement in the house. The struggle had been fierce, but there had been no noise. The murderer was considerably reassured, as he marked the dead silence that reigned in the place, and then he turned again towards the door of the fatal bedroom. He hesitated to enter it, for the wretch, though full of brute courage, feared to look again upon the face of the victim he had done to death. But there was nothing else for it; he entered the room in fear and trepidation, he gathered up his plunder with a shaking hand, and carefully secured it in a Gladstone bag which lay in the dressing-room; on it were the initials of the master of Azalea Lodge. Last of all he thrust the watch and chain of the murdered man into his pocket; then he looked upon the ground and saw with horror the marks of his own guilty foot-prints in hideous red blurs upon the gay carpet. He removed his tell-tale felt slippers, and the bag in one hand, the slippers in the other, and holding the end of the bit of candle which he had re-lighted high above his head, he regained the hall. He carefully placed the little parcel which he had left upon the hall table in the bag, and stuffing a sheep's skin mat and the blood-stained slippers in as well, he succeeded in deadening the jangling noise made by the plate. He snatched down an Inverness cape which hung in the hall and flung it over his arm, and on tiptoe he gained the housemaid's pantry in safety; he put on his boots and washed his blood-stained hands. Then he strode down the garden of Azalea Lodge, carrying in his hand the rope and three-pronged hook by which he had entered the premises. He scaled several walls with cat-like celerity, and then secreted himself among the shrubs of the front garden of a house in a main road of St. John's Wood. From this hiding-place he saw with satisfaction the infrequent policeman pass on his nocturnal round; then he put on the Inverness cape, which gave him a rather distinguished appearance, and walked boldly forth, carrying his Gladstone bag. He hailed the first hansom he met and drove to Charing Cross; there he took another cab to Matilda Street. He dismissed the man at the corner, and reached his lair.
Here the man Parsons disappears from our story. Early dawn saw him on board the Antwerp boat, and he reached the Continent in safety. No doubt he had his reward, in this world or the next.
And so Lord Hetton died, unlamented save by his lonely old father at Walls End Castle and by the woman who firmly believed that the very last determination of his life had been to cast her off as a worn-out garment and to "wash his hands" of her for ever. Save to these two persons, and to those who had had the misfortune to back Lord Hetton's nomination for the coming Derby, his death made no difference to anybody. We have forgotten Reginald Haggard; he, lucky fellow, of course benefited, for it brought him one step nearer to the Pit Town title.
It was after all but a vulgar tragedy, though it made considerable noise at the time.
When, in the early morning, the housemaid at Azalea Lodge found her pantry door unlocked, she was alarmed; and when she saw that the window was open and that one of the protecting iron bars had been wrenched aside, she very nearly fainted. In her tribulation she hurried to her fellow servants and informed them of her startling discovery. The four women were terribly frightened, and it was only after a considerable amount of persuasion that the cook consented to put on her bonnet and go in search of the police. While she was absent the three other women fortified themselves in the kitchen and awaited her return in fear and trembling. Constable Bulger, 130 D, was soon upon the scene; he examined the pantry window from the outside, he looked very wisely indeed at the foot-prints in the soft gravel path, and directed that they should remain undisturbed; and then he entered the house and proceeded to interrogate the servants.
"Anything missing, ladies?" he said.
No, nothing was missing in the basement, and the policeman and the frightened maids ascended to the hall, where the parlourmaid instantly detected the absence of the Inverness cape.