Judith felt a wavering wet hand fumbling toward her in the darkness. It clasped hers; the arm went around her; she raised her face, and the cold lips of the visitant met her warm tremulous ones.
For an instant she had no thought but that Creed had returned from the dead to claim her—and she was willing to go. Then she was aware of a swift rush, as the fleeing girls went past them, and the patter of the hound’s feet following. Slowly the newcomer’s weight sagged against her; he crumpled and went to the floor, dragging her down in his fall.
“Girls! Clianthy! Pendrilly!” she cried as she crouched there, clinging to the prostrate form. “Don’t leave me—it’s Creed himself. You got to he’p me!”
“The door was flung back and in the darkness stood Creed Bonbright.”
But the girls were gone like frightened hares. As she got to her feet in the doorway she could hear the sound of their flying footsteps down the lane. All was dead still in the room behind her, yet only an ear as fine as hers could have distinguished those light, receding footfalls that finally melted into the far multitudinous whisper and rustle of the storm.
She turned back in the dark and knelt down beside him, passing a light, tender hand over his face and chest. He breathed. He was a living man.
“Creed,” she whispered loud and desperately. There was no movement or response.
“Creed,” raising her voice. “O my God! Creed, darlin’ cain’t you hear me? It’s me. It’s Jude—poor Jude that loves you so—cain’t you answer her?”