He moved with his host toward the open French window, where the two men stood for a few moments darkening the room, and looking like two huge silhouettes to Glyddyr, as he lay back in his chair with his cigar half out.
Then suddenly Gartram turned and looked at him with a peculiar smile.
“You won’t join us, I suppose?” he said.
“I—thanks—if you will excuse me,” said Glyddyr, in a faltering voice.
“Excuse you, my dear boy? of course. Come along, Asher, the sea looks lovely from the upper seat.”
Glyddyr’s whole manner changed, and grew cat-like in its quick, soft movements as the pair walked away from the window along the granite terrace, Gartram’s boots creaking loudly as they walked.
There was a death-like silence then in the room, which made Glyddyr’s long-drawn, catching breath sound strangely loud as he rose from his seat and walked silently over the thick carpet to stand listening by the window, his figure in turn looking perfectly black against the moonlight; and as he stood there, from outside there came the low murmur of the men’s voices, and from the house, all muffled, the music of the piano in the drawing-room.
With a quick, gliding movement Glyddyr walked to the chimney-piece, thrusting his hand into his breast-pocket. Then, taking up the glass, he crossed to the window, and with a quick movement threw its contents sharply away, the liquid breaking up into a tiny sparkling shower in the soft yellow moonlight, and then it was gone.
Quickly and silently Glyddyr stole back to the chimney-piece, and replaced the glass. There was a faint, squeaking noise, as of a cork being removed from a phial, then the tap of glass upon glass, a faint gurgling, and another tapping of glass upon glass, as if his hand trembled.
A low, catching sigh followed, then a repetition of the faint squeak of the cork, and Glyddyr once more moved towards the window, satisfied himself that the others were nowhere near, and then he drew back a little, extended his arm behind him, and hurled the little phial away with all his might.