It was one of the maids.
“Here,” he said, in a half-whisper. “Your mistress—upstairs?”
“No, sir. In the library, I think. A gentleman came.”
“That’ll do,” he said sharply. “No; stop. Where is Miss Mary?”
“Gone out, sir, with Mrs Woodham.”
He turned quickly and swung to the door, with a look in his face that was diabolical.
“Gun—pistol?” he muttered. “No, no; not that—not murder. Better revenge. Lot of the money’s mine. Free, free! Let him take her—let him—curse him! I wish I was strong once more.”
As if impelled by the wave of passion that came over him, he walked quickly to the library door, and as he reached it, he heard a peculiar clang, as of the closing of the book-shelf doors which screened the iron safe.
A peculiar look of rage and cunning distorted his face; and, twisting the handle round, he threw open the door and rushed in, as, with her face wild from excitement, Claude turned towards him.
“Hah!” he cried, with a look of fierce triumph, as he caught her by the wrist, “I’ve come back.” And he uttered a low laugh as he pointed to the great safe.