“It’s coming through! It’s coming!”
“Run, run for your lives!” cried the Frenchman.
Another crash, and something shot through the riven door. It was a long white spike, gleaming in the lamplight. For a moment it shone before us, and then with a snap it disappeared again.
“Quick! Quick! This way!” Harvey Deacon shouted. “Carry her in! Here! Quick!”
We had taken refuge in the dining-room, and shut the heavy oak door. We laid the senseless woman upon the sofa, and as we did so, Moir, the hard man of business, drooped and fainted across the hearthrug. Harvey Deacon was as white as a corpse, jerking and twitching like an epileptic. With a crash we heard the studio door fly to pieces, and the snorting and stamping were in the passage, up and down, up and down, shaking the house with their fury. The Frenchman had sunk his face on his hands, and sobbed like a frightened child.
“What shall we do?” I shook him roughly by the shoulder. “Is a gun any use?”
“No, no. The power will pass. Then it will end.”
“You might have killed us all—you unspeakable fool—with your infernal experiments.”
“I did not know. How could I tell that it would be frightened? It is mad with terror. It was his fault. He struck it.”
Harvey Deacon sprang up. “Good heavens!” he cried.