§ 9
Sir Peter Laxton was awakened from an uneasy sleep by the opening of the dressing-room door that connected his room with his wife’s.
He sat up astonished and stared at her white face, its pallor exaggerated by the cold light of dawn.
“Peter,” she said, “I’m sure there’s something more going on.”
“Something more going on?”
“Something—shouting and swearing.”
“You don’t mean—?”
She nodded. “The Lord Chancellor,” she said, in an awe-stricken whisper. “He’s at it again. Downstairs in the dining-room.”
Sir Peter seemed disposed at first to receive this quite passively. Then he flashed into extravagant wrath. “I’m damned,” he cried, jumping violently out of bed, “if I’m going to stand this! Not if he was a hundred Lord Chancellors! He’s turning the place into a bally lunatic asylum. Once—one might excuse. But to start in again.... What’s that?”
They both stood still listening. Faintly yet quite distinctly came the agonized cry of some imperfectly educated person,—“’Elp!”
“Here! Where’s my trousers?” cried Sir Peter. “He’s murdering Mergleson. There isn’t a moment to lose.”