Mentally cursing his wife, Heyton closed his eyes and tried to think. Strangely enough, his lack of imagination helped him; the imaginative man, in Heyton's position, would have conjured up all the terrible possibilities which environed him; but Heyton's mind was dull and narrow, and so he was able to concentrate on actual facts and actual chances.
Up to the present, he told himself, there was absolutely nothing to connect him with the robbery and the—murder, if murder it was. He felt sure that the Marquess had not seen him in that brief moment, when the old man stood in the doorway; if he had done so, he would certainly have spoken Heyton's name; there was nothing to show that the blow had been dealt by Heyton; with the selfishness of the baser kind of criminal, he had refrained from examining the motionless figure, lest he should be stained by the blood which flowed from the wound. No; the robbery would be laid to the charge of the ordinary burglar.
Then suddenly his mind switched off with a jolt; he had forgotten that the most damning proof of his guilt was in the cabinet opposite the bed, where he had thrust it. At that very moment he was actually in possession of the stolen goods; a minute search would be made, even his own room would not be exempt. He must hide the jewel-case somewhere. But where? Then he remembered having dropped the keys, and he hunted for them; but he could not find them. He was getting confused, obfuscated: he would search for the keys in the morning: perhaps, after all, he had left them in the dressing-room.
Throughout the remaining hours of that awful night, he lay pondering the momentous question, at one moment burning with fever, at another icy cold. The dawn broke, the sun rose, the room grew hot; and the heat gave him an idea. As the clock struck six, he rose, put on his boating flannels, and, with his bath towel over his arm, opened the bedroom door. He had actually forgotten the missing keys! Such lapses are common to the criminal.
Miriam was a light sleeper—as her awaking at the noise of the falling chair had proved—she became conscious of his presence and she opened her eyes.
"Oh, what is it, Percy?" she asked, petulantly and a little nervously.
"I'm going down to the lake for a swim," he said; "it's precious hot this morning. I left my white shoes in the room."
"No, you didn't," she said, impatiently. "I saw them with your other boots in the dressing-room yesterday."
"Oh, right!" he said. "Awfully sorry to have disturbed you."
He returned to the dressing-room, arranged the long bath towel over the jewel-case, and went downstairs. He was too early, as he knew, for any of the servants to be about, and he went through the lower hall and was unbolting the outer door when he chanced to glance at the window nearest it; it was closed by a common hasp, and was without bars. With a little nod of satisfaction, he opened the window noiselessly; then went out by the door.