Then it ceased, and she heard the accomplices clattering down the stairs without a thought of the noise they made.

They burst into the room.

Harry Wethermill was laughing hysterically, like a man off his head.

He had been wearing a long dark overcoat when he entered the house; now he carried the coat over his arm.

He was in a dinner-jacket, and his black clothes were dusty and disordered.
"It's all for nothing!" he screamed rather than cried.