"Ben! Ben!"
Donaldson slipped upon the polished floor and Arsdale, throwing his arm about his victim's neck, secured a very effective strangle hold. It looked bad for Donaldson. On the smooth waxed floor he could secure no purchase by which to regain his feet and he could not reach the fellow with either fist. He was as helpless as though he had the Old Man of the Mountain upon his back. The world began to swim before his eyes; the cries of the girl to sound in the distance. Then he smelled the biting aroma of spirits of ammonia and felt the clutch upon his throat loosen. He broke free, got upon his feet and found Arsdale rubbing his smarting eyes while the girl stood over him, frightened at what she had done, with the empty bottle in her hand.
"I've blinded him!" she cried, drawing back in horror.
"Thanks. You 've also prevented him from killing me."
"Don't say that—not kill!"
"But the man is n't responsible."
"That is true, but—even when he is like this he would n't do any harm."
His throat was still sore from the press of the fellow's fingers, but he nodded politely.
Donaldson perceived that she was fighting off a fear. It made the danger seem even more imminent. He had noted with surprise that no servants had appeared. This gave a particularly uncanny atmosphere to the big house, making it look as deserted as though empty of furniture.
"We must get him upstairs and into bed," she said. "Will you help him?"