"My father," he whispered; "I am only just in time."
He felt his way rapidly, yet noiselessly, along the few feet between his resting-place and Ravenspur's room. Imminent as the peril was, he yet paused to push his blanket out of sight. As he came to the door of Ravenspur's room the cry rose higher. He stooped and then his fingers touched something warm.
"Marion," he said; "I can catch the subtle fragrance of your hair."
The girl swallowed a scream. She was trembling from head to foot with fear and excitement. It was dark, the cry from within was despairing, the intense horror of it was dreadful.
"Yes, yes," she whispered hoarsely. "I was lying awake and I heard it. And that good old man told me to-day that his time was coming. I—I was going to rouse the house. The door is locked."
"Do nothing of the sort. Stand aside."
The voice was low but commanding. Marion obeyed mechanically. With great strength and determination Ralph flung himself against the door. At the second assault the rusty iron bolt gave and the door flew open.
Inside, Ravenspur lay on his bed. By his bedside a nightlight cast a feeble pallid ray. There was nobody in the room besides Ravenspur himself. He lay back absolutely rigid, a yellow hue was over his face like a painted mask, his eyes were wide open, his lips twitched convulsively. Evidently he was in some kind of cataleptic fit and his senses had not deserted him.
He was powerless to move and made no attempt to do so. The man was choking to death and yet his limbs were rigid. A sickly sweet odor filled the room and caused Ralph to double up and gasp for breath. It was as if the whole atmosphere was drenched with a fine spray of chloroform. Marion stood in the doorway like a fascinated white statue of fear and despair.
"What is it?" she whispered. "What is that choking smell?"