“You are mistaken, Mr. Stephen. I am never tired, and I am never annoyed.”
“At least you must be surprised,” said Stephen; “you had no idea that my uncle had left so much.”
“No, I am not even surprised,” retorted Mr. Hudsley, if his calm reply could be called a retort. “I have lived too long to be surprised by anything.”
And there was something in his keen, icy look which silenced Stephen, and made him bend over his papers suddenly.
Others noticed the change which had come over the once sleek, smooth-spoken young man. It got to be remarked that he rarely left the Hurst grounds, and that what exercise he took was on the terrace in front of the library, or on the lawn below it. It was said that he paced up and down this lawn for hours.
It was said, too, that he rarely addressed a servant in or out of the house. All the orders came through the valet Slummers.
Mention has been made of Slummers. It would have been difficult to describe him. He was called in the village “the Shadow,” because he was so thin and noiseless, so silent and death-like.
In addition to his noiselessness, he had a trick of going about with closed eyes, or with his lids so lowered that it looked as if his eyes were closed.
Bets had been made upon the supposed color of those visional organs, but had never been decided, for never by any chance did he look anyone in the face when speaking; and when by some accident those sphinx-like lids were raised they were dropped again so quickly that examination of what lay behind them was impossible.
Secretiveness was part and parcel of this man. He never did anything openly. When he gave an order it was in a round-about way. The simplest action of his daily life was enveloped in mystery. Even his meals were taken in a room apart; only a few of the servants knew the room he occupied. Then he seemed ubiquitous. He was everywhere at once, and turned up when least expected.