“Andrew Blotte has hanged himself in your cellars. I was just too late.”
“My God!”
Pangbutt’s voice was a shadow of a whisper. The floor swung up to strike him—swung away from his feet so that he nearly fell. He reeled a step, and sank into the gilt armchair that was the splendid seat for his painting-throne.
The whisper spread; and the guests stole quietly from the place.
CHAPTER LXXXIX
Wherein Andrew Blotte draws aside the Arras that hangs Across the Unknown and joins the Company at a Larger Banquet
They left their host alone with Anthony Baddlesmere.
The wretched man, sunk in a dazed huddle in the midst of his splendid home, sat crouched in the gilt chair, bewildered, as one struck down by a sudden blow. Slowly his wits came back and traced a miserable picture of bygone fatuities and a black knavery into the elaborate design of the rich carpet at his feet.