The throng, their fervor undiminished, ransacked every nook and cranny of the mansion, their torches casting grotesque, wavering shadows upon the walls. The meticulous search proved fruitless; not a hint of Sir Ferdinand Lazarus could be discerned amid the lavish decor.

“Where is he?” demanded one man, his voice rising in desperation.

“I’ve scoured every corner,” replied another, his tone thick with frustration. “There’s not a chink or cranny, not even a hole the size of a keyhole.”

“Blimey!” exclaimed a third, “I wouldn’t be astonished if he were to bring the whole house down upon us!”

“Indeed?” came the incredulous retort. “I’ve never heard of vampyres possessing such destructive powers. They’re not the sort to wreak havoc like that,” said another, with a scoff.

“Yet, if they can achieve one feat, why not another?” mused a third voice, the undertones of doubt evident.

“Aye, that’s true enough,” agreed another. “And consider this: I’ve never heard tell of a vampyre dissolving into thin air before. But here we are.”

“He might be lurking in this very room,” suggested one, his voice low with trepidation.

“Aye, he might be,” came the reply, as the searchers continued their frantic quest.

“By my eyes, what long teeth he had!” observed another, his voice trembling with a mix of awe and fear.

“Indeed,” replied an elderly man, his face pale in the flickering light. “Had he sunk those fangs into your arm, he would have drained every drop of blood from you. Mark my words.”

“He was a giant of a man,” another noted.

“Yes,” replied another with a shudder. “Too tall, perhaps, for comfort. I wouldn’t care to be in his grasp, though. Imagine him lifting me high, only to let me fall and break my neck.”

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As the mob’s wrath grew, so too did their destruction. They overturned furniture, shattered priceless mirrors, and tore down draperies with frenzied abandon. Their actions, fueled by both rage and desperation, turned the once elegant rooms into scenes of utter chaos.

“Search every nook! Every cranny!” a voice boomed. “To the cellars!”

“The cellars, the cellars!” echoed the crowd, their shouts merging into a cacophony of urgency. They surged toward the stairs with a frenzy that rivaled their earlier tumult.

“Hurrah!” cried one, breaking a bottle’s neck with a forceful twist. “Here’s to vampyre-hunting! May our pursuit be fruitful!”

“Aye, to our hunt!” cheered another, his hand brushing against the wine bottle held by a fellow. “But is it fitting to drink before our betters?”

With a sudden jostle, the wine sloshed onto the second man’s face, and he cursed violently. “Blast it!” he exclaimed. “The wine stings my eyes! If I could see, I’d throttle you!”

“Success to vampyre-hunting!” raised another voice in defiant cheer.

“May we yet be fortunate!” another added, raising a bottle to his lips. “We couldn’t ask for better entertainment, where the bill’s already paid.”

“Excellent!” “Very good!” “Capital wine!” rang out among the revelers.

“Huggins!” called out one, his tone demanding.

“Aye?” replied Huggins.

“What are you drinking?”

“Wine,” came the casual reply.

“What sort of wine?”

“Damned if I know,” answered Huggins. “It’s wine, I suppose. It isn’t beer or spirits, so it must be wine.”

“Are you certain it isn’t bottled men’s blood?”

“What?”

“Bottled blood! Who knows what a vampyre drinks? Perhaps this is his preferred vintage—a toast to his nightly indulgence!”

“Blast it, I’m feeling ill. Perhaps you’re right, neighbor. We might be cannibals—or vampyres ourselves.”

“That’s a troubling thought.”

By now, the wine had taken its toll. Some were well and truly inebriated, others teetered on the brink, and the rest swarmed the cellars for their share of the wine. The servants, having vanished from the rioters' view, were no longer a concern. The mob, freed from any restraint, channeled their energies into destruction and debauchery.

Hours passed, and the frantic search for Sir Ferdinand yielded nothing. Every room, every cupboard, every cellar had been scoured without a trace. The searchers, their spirits dampened by the fruitless quest and bolstered by the effects of the wine, had taken to destroying the very heart of their quarry’s domain.

As the night drew on, a general sense of desolation settled over the rioters. The wine cellar, with its now-emptied bottles, stood as a grim monument to their failed pursuit. The destruction had been thorough; the cellars lay in ruins, and the once-proud mansion stood silent, its secrets hidden from those who sought them so eagerly.