mingling its clink (for it struck the floor this time and broke) with
the cry he gave--which was not exactly a cry either, but an odd sound
between a moan and a shriek. He had caught sight of the men who were
seeking to detain him, and his haggard look and cringing form showed
that he realized at last the terrors of his position. Next minute he
sought to escape, but Styles, gripping him more firmly, dragged him back
to where Mr. Gryce stood beside the bearskin rug on which lay the form
of his dead master.

Instantly, at the sight of this recumbent figure, another change took
place in the entrapped butler. Joy--that most hellish of passions in the
presence of violence and death--illumined his wandering eye and
distorted his mouth; and, seeking no disguise for the satisfaction he
felt, he uttered a low but thrilling laugh, which rang in unholy echo
through the room.

Mr. Gryce, moved in spite of himself by an abhorrence which the
irresponsible condition of this man seemed only to emphasize, waited
till the last faint sounds of this diabolical mirth had died away in the
high recesses of the space above. Then, fixing the glittering eye of
this strange creature with his own, which, as we know, so seldom dwelt
upon that of his fellow-beings, he sternly said:

"There now! Speak! Who killed this man? You were in the house with him,
and should know."

The butler's lips opened and a string of strange gutturals poured forth,
while with his one disengaged hand (for the other was held to his side
by Styles) he touched his ears and his lips, and violently shook his
head.