Heyton stood and gazed at this horrible sight, as if he were turned to stone. He was like a man who has been suddenly struck by paralysis; it seemed to him as if the whole of his legs and feet had been turned to lead, and that he should never again be able to move them, that he would be forced to remain there until the servants came and that—that horrible thing lying at his feet were discovered.
For some minutes he remained in this condition of coma, stupor; but presently, gradually, he recovered the use of his limbs, his brain began to work again, and he asked himself whether there was any reason for the terror which had obsessed him. Of compunction for the awful crime there was nothing in his mind or heart. That the man he had struck down was his own father, did not count; every fibre of his being was absorbed, to the exclusion of everything else, in the desire for his own safety. So gigantic was his selfishness, that the working of his mind was not disturbed by the enormity of the crime he had committed; he saw now that, as events had turned out, he had acted unwisely in taking the jewels from their box; and, alertly and with something like calmness, he unlocked the safe, replaced the jewels in the box and left the safe door open; he was actually turning away, leaving the jewel-case in its place, when his cupidity got the better of him and he took up the case, hid it under his dressing-gown, and went towards the bedroom door.
As he reached it, he glanced over his shoulder at the silent, blood-stained form lying on the floor; he wondered whether his father were dead or only stunned. For a moment, he wished that the blow had been fatal: he, Heyton, would be the Marquess; there would be plenty of money ready to his hand, there would be no need to steal his own jewels, he thought, with an hysterical giggle. But he could leave nothing to chance now. With another glance at the motionless figure, he stole from the room and reached his own.
The unnatural calm which had supported him during the last few minutes had deserted him by this time, and, in closing the door, he did so clumsily enough to make a sound; the sound, slight as it was, struck him with renewed terror, and, in crossing the room, he stumbled against a chair and overthrew it; and let the two keys slip from his fingers. The sound of the falling chair was loud and distinct enough to fill him with apprehension, and he stood breathless and listened, as if he expected the whole household to awake.
There was a movement in Miriam's room, and he heard her voice calling to him softly.
"Was that you, Percy?" she asked, in the tone of one just awakened from sleep.
He was silent for a moment; it seemed hours to him—then he slipped into the bed, and, with a yawn, as if she had roused him from sleep, he replied,
"What is it?"
"I don't know," she said. "I thought I heard a noise."
"Oh, that!" he said, with another yawn. "I knocked over the chair by the bed, reaching for a glass of water. For goodness' sake, go to sleep and don't bother!"