CHAPTER XXXVII

THREE NIGHTS LATER “Listen!” cried Sir Lionel Barton. He stood upon the black rug before the massive, carven mantelpiece, a huge man in an appropriately huge setting. I checked the words on my lips, and listened intently. Within Greywater Park all was still, for the hour was late. Outside, the rain was descending in a deluge, its continuous roar drowning any other sound that might have been discernible. Then, above it, I detected a noise that at first I found difficult to define. “The howling of the leopards!” I su…