Lady Carwitchet in a flannel wrapper, minus hair, teeth, complexion,
pointing a skinny forefinger that quivered with rage at her son, who was
out of the range of my vision.
"Stop that, and throw those keys down here directly, or I'll rouse the
house. Sir Thomas is a magistrate, and will lock you up as soon as look at
you." She clutched at the bell rope as she spoke. "I'll swear I'm in
danger of my life from you and give you in charge. Yes, and when you're in
prison I'll keep you there till you die. I've often thought I'd do it. How
about the hotel robberies last summer at Cowes, eh? Mightn't the police be
grateful for a hint or two? And how about--"
The keys fell with a crash on the bed, accompanied by some bad language in
an apologetic tone, and the door slammed to. I crept trembling to bed.
This new and horrible complication of the situation filled me with
dismay. Lord Carwitchet's wolfish glance at my rubies took a new meaning.
They were safe enough, I believed--but the sapphire! If he disbelieved his
mother, how long would she be able to keep it from his clutches? That she
had some plot of her own of which the bishop would eventually be the
victim I did not doubt, or why had she not made her bargain with him long
ago? But supposing she took fright, lost her head, allowed her son to
wrest the jewel from her, or gave consent to its being mutilated, divided!
I lay in a cold perspiration till morning.
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