Bealby was so much the centre of his world that he was incapable of any interpretation of this shouting and uproar, this smashing of decanters and firing of pistol shots, except in reference to himself. He supposed it to be a Hue and Cry. He supposed that he was being hunted—hunted by a pack of great butlers hounded on by the irreparably injured Thomas. The thought of upstairs gentlefolks passed quite out of his mind. He snatched up a faked Syrian dagger that lay, in the capacity of a paper knife, on the study table, concealed himself under the chintz valance of a sofa, adjusted its rumpled skirts neatly, and awaited the issue of events.
For a time events did not issue. They remained talking noisily upon the great staircase. Bealby could not hear what was said, but most of what was said appeared to be flat contradiction.
“Perchance,” whispered Bealby to himself, gathering courage, “perchance we have eluded them.... A breathing space....”
At last a woman’s voice mingled with the others and seemed a little to assuage them....
Then it seemed to Bealby that they were dispersing to beat the house for him. “Good-night again then,” said someone.
That puzzled him, but he decided it was a “blind.” He remained very, very still.
He heard a clicking in the apartment—the blue parlour it was called—between the study and the dining-room. Electric light?
Then some one came into the study. Bealby’s eye was as close to the ground as he could get it. He was breathless, he moved his head with an immense circumspection. The valance was translucent but not transparent, below it there was a crack of vision, a strip of carpet, the castors of chairs. Among these things he perceived feet—not ankles, it did not go up to that, but just feet. Large flattish feet. A pair. They stood still, and Bealby’s hand lighted on the hilt of his dagger.
The person above the feet seemed to be surveying the room or reflecting.
“Drunk!... Old fool’s either drunk or mad! That’s about the truth of it,” said a voice.