Chapter 32
A PORTLY FIGURE in a dressing-gown came whirling from the steps under the pergola. It was Staples, the Rosemount butler, a revolver in his hand. Behind him, brandishing a driving iron, was the tall footman, who had donned a raincoat over his pyjamas.
When they appeared, Dene was on his feet, sunk in moody contemplation of the still form on the grass. His head pillowed on the coat, eyes closed, Reardon lay full length, face upturned to the brilliant moon, his lips trembling to a strange rattling sound that bubbled rhythmically from his throat.
‘What’s going on here?’ the butler demanded rather tremulously, while, with a frightened air, the footman peered at the man on the ground.
‘There’s been an attempted burglary,’ Dene said shortly.
‘Why, if it isn’t Mr. Dene!’ cried Stap
