“Here, quick, I want you,” he said hoarsely. “Ah, just in time,” he cried, as at that moment the entrance door was darkened, and Mary Dillon entered, with Trevithick trying to detain her, and closely followed by Sarah Woodham. “Better and better,” he said, with a grin. “This way—this way, witnesses, please.”
He unlocked and threw open the library door, and drew back for the others to go past.
“John Trevithick, quick! there is something wrong,” cried Mary, as she ran in—to shriek wildly and loudly, “Help! he has murdered her!”
“You villain!” roared Trevithick, seizing Glyddyr, but he wrested himself free.
“Bah! great idiot!” he cried. “There, look, she is only fainting—with joy, can’t you see?” he continued, as Claude uttered a sigh, and moved one hand. “Now then, witnesses,” he cried, with a savage laugh, “I have been out; I have just returned. This is my dear wife, who wishes for a divorce; and this,” he almost yelled, as he threw open the great book-covered door of the safe, “is our dear friend Mr—”
He ceased speaking, with the malignant grin frozen upon his face, as the quick, stern-looking man staggered panting, half-suffocated from the safe, stared wildly for a few moments, and then, before Glyddyr could realise his position, recovered himself sufficiently to clap his hand upon the scoundrel’s shoulder.
“Mr Parry Glyddyr,” he cried, “you are my prisoner. I arrest you for murder!”