It was dusk in the corridor, and Leloir could not see his master’s face distinctly, or the expression on it, but he heard the chuckle. He had been in Gyde’s service for two years, and he thought that he knew every phase of his master’s temperament and character, but this chuckle alarmed him more than the wildest outbreak of rage would have done.
There was something inhuman in it, something horrible. It did not seem the sound produced by a man’s voice, a great ape might have uttered it or a devil.
Leloir was turning to go, in fact, he had made half a dozen steps, when Gyde’s voice said:
“Stop.”
“Sir?” replied the valet.
“You have all my jewels.”
“Yes, sir, they are in this bag.”
“Right. Order the car to the door.”
The valet, glad to be gone, did as he was bid, and the master of Throstle Hall continued his peregrinations about the house, as though to make sure that everything was right before leaving.
A few minutes later he came downstairs, still carrying the bag. The motor, a large brougham affair, was standing at the steps; he got in, Leloir closed the door, mounted beside the chauffeur, and they started.