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“Mr. Curtis!” she said urgently.

He made a sharp, despairing gesture. “I can’t help it,” he said. “You must go. For Heaven’s sake, don’t let him touch you, and burn the clothes you have on as soon as possible! I am going to set fire to this place immediately.”

“Going to–set fire to it?” She stared at him in surprise, still scarcely understanding.

“The poor chap is dead,” he said. “It’s the only thing to do.”

She turned back to the face upon the pillow with its staring, sightless eyes. She raised a pitying hand to close them, but Curtis intervened.

He drew her to her feet. “Go!” he said. “Go! Keep Mercer away, that’s all!”

She heard the jingling of a horse’s bit and knew that the rider was very near. Mechanically almost, she turned from the place of death and went to meet him.

XV

He was off his horse and striding for the entrance when she encountered him. The starlight on his face showed it livid and terrible. At sight of her he stopped short.

“Are you mad?” he said.

They were the identical words that Curtis had used; but his voice, hoarse, unnatural, told her that he was in a dangerous mood.

She backed away from him. “Don’t come near me!” she said quickly. “He–he is just dead. And I have been with him.”

“He?” he flung at her furiously, and she knew by his tone that he suspected the truth.

She tried to answer him steadily, but her strength was beginning to fail her. The long strain was telling upon her at last. She was uncertain of herself.

“It–was Robin Wentworth,” she said.

He took a swift stride towards her. His face was convulsed with passion. “You came here to see that soddened cur?” he said.

She shrank away from him. The tempest of his anger overwhelmed her. She could not stand against it. For the first time she quailed.

“I have seen him,” she said. “And he is dead. Ah, don’t–don’t touch me!”

He paid no attention to her cry. He seized her by the shoulders and almost swung her from his path.

“It would have been better for you,” he said between his teeth, “if he had died before you got here. You have begun to repent already, and you’ll go on repenting for the rest of your life.”

“What are you going to do?” she cried, seeing him turn. “Brett, don’t go in there! Don’t! Don’t! You must not! You shall not!”

In a frenzy of fear she threw herself upon him, struggling with all her puny strength to hold him back.

“I tell you he is dead!” she gasped. “Why do you want to go in?”

“I am going to see for myself,” he said stubbornly, putting her away.

“No!” she cried. “No!”

His eyes gleamed red with a savage fury as she clung to him afresh. He caught her wrists, forcing her backwards.

“I don’t believe he is dead!” he snarled.

“He is! He is! Mr. Curtis told me so.”

“If he isn’t, I’ll murder him!” Brett Mercer vowed, and flung her fiercely from him.

She fell with violence and lay half-stunned, while he, blinded with rage, possessed by devils, strode forward into that silent place, leaving her prone.

She thought later that she must have fainted, for the next thing she knew–and it must have been after the passage of several minutes–was Mercer kneeling beside her and lifting her. His touch was perfectly gentle, but she dared not look into his face. She cowered in his arms in mortal fear. He had crushed her at last.

“Have I hurt you?” he said.

She did not answer. Her voice was gone. She was as powerless as an infant. He raised her and bore her steadily away.

When he paused finally, it was to speak to Beelzebub, who was holding the horses. And then, without a word to her, he lifted her up on to a saddle, and mounted himself behind her. She lay against his breast as one dazed, incapable of speech or action. And so, with his arm about her, moving slowly through a world of shadows, they began the long, long journey back.