“Louie! Louie dear!”
“Oh! I don’t mind the dark,” said Uncle Luke. “Here, why don’t the girl let in some air these hot nights?” he continued, as he crossed the room towards the big embayment, with its stained glass heraldic device.
Crack! crackle!
“Hullo here! broken glass under one’s feet,” said Luke Vine, with a chuckle. “This comes of having plenty of servants to keep your place clean.”
“Glass?”
“Yes, glass. Can’t you hear it?” snarled Uncle Luke, who, as he found his brother resume his old demeanour, relapsed into his own. “There! glass—glass—glass crunching into your Turkey carpet.”
As he spoke he gave his foot a stamp, with the result that at each movement there was a sharp crackling sound.
“It’s very strange. Louise!”
“Oh!”
A low, piteous moan.