This, for the butler looked unnerved. He went up directly, though, and as soon as he was gone Arthur put his face to the coat, close to the old lady’s ear.
“You just listen,” he said. “You’ve had your innings, and led me a pretty devil of a life with your nasty ways. It’s my turn now. Quiet, curse you! Stop that row, or as sure as you’re a living woman now, you’ll want a coffin to-morrow.”
“What—what is it you want. Money?” came faintly.
“Never you mind what we want, old girl. There, you needn’t kick and struggle; we don’t want to carry you off and marry you by force, so lie still. Ah, that’s right; look sharp. My Gladstone, not yours. Get out the rope.”
The butler, whose face was now mottled with white patches, opened one of the portmanteaus and took out a cord.
“Now come here and lay hold. If she begins to squeal again, tighten your grip a bit.”
But the woman lay perfectly still now, and she did not even wince when the footman twisted the rope tightly round her ankles and knotted it fast.
“Now then, over on her face, guv’nor. I must have these wrists tied behind, or she may begin to scratch.”
The helpless woman was turned over, her wrists firmly secured, and she was then laid on her side and the coat taken off, to reveal her wide, staring eyes, and teeth set, with the lips drawn right away.
“You’ve killed her, my boy,” whispered the butler in a hoarse voice.