“Who's that?” he demanded, with abruptness so sharp-pitched that the gallery echoed with the sound. “Who's that?”
He heard a hard, quick gasp, a sound which was momentarily a little horrible, as if the man's soul was being jerked out of his body's depths.
“Who is he?” he cried again. “Tell me.”
After the gasp, Strangeways stood still and stared. His eyes were glued to the canvas, drops of sweat came out on his forehead, and he was shuddering. He began to back away with a look of gruesome struggle. He backed and backed, and stared and stared. The gasp came twice again, and then his voice seemed to tear itself loose from some power that was holding it back.
“Th—at!” he cried. “It is—it—is Miles Hugo!”
The last words were almost a shout, and he shook as if he would have fallen. But T. Tembarom put his hand on his shoulder and held him, breathing fast himself. Gee! if it wasn't like a thing in a play!
“Page at the court of Charles the Second,” he rattled off. “Died of smallpox when he was nineteen. Miles Hugo! Miles Hugo! You hold on to that for all your worth. And hold on to me. I'll keep you steady. Say it again.”
“Miles Hugo.” The poor majestic-looking fellow almost sobbed it. “Where am I? What is the name of this place?”
“It's Temple Barholm in the county of Lancashire, England. Hold on to that, too—like thunder!”
Strangeways held the young man's arm with hands that clutched. He dragged at him. His nightmare held him yet; Tembarom saw it, but flashes of light were blinding him.