For from some part of the house someone was laughing. No—to avoid error from the first—I thought then, and at the present hour this all who heard are willing to swear: the laughter came from no human throat. Yet is Parson Lolly not human? And if he—but this shows the inconsistency of our fear. Yes, I will swear it was no human sound that roared and re-echoed through the House, gleeing and gurgling, curdling the blood of us who were within the walls. So huge was the uproar that the place of its source could not be told, and it went on and on unendurably for immeasurable seconds, to change to silence with a sudden gulp.
I dashed to the window for a quick look, and could see nothing in the darkness, but discovered a glow spreading from immediately below me. The chandelier in the Hall must be lighted now. Then flinging my coat on, I rushed out of the room, impelled by a sense of dread and danger, and an anxiety to get where people were. I met Soames, hot-water can in hand, at the head of the stairs underneath the solitary electric bulb. He was green, a mildewed colour, startled into stone.
I sprang down the stairs without a word, and he, galvanized, followed with a gasp:
“Gord, sir, is that him?” He meant the Parson.
On the landing of the first floor stood Lib Dale, her fingers nervously fluttering about her face.
“What’s the matter? What’s happened?”
“Something drastic,” I said, while we went speeding together down to the entrance vestibule. Soames, still carrying the water, brought up a thumping rear.
“Oh, wouldn’t it be awful if someone’s kicked—I mean, if someone’s been knocked off?”
“Knocked off?”
“I mean if an individual has been assassinated,” she explained haughtily, and then for an instant her impertinent little face went to chalk.