The Seventh Noon

by Frederick Orin Bartlett

The lower floor was one big room and showed no sign of having been occupied for years. It was scantily furnished and smelled damp and musty. At one side a big stone fireplace looked as dead as a tomb. He pushed through a door into the kitchen which led off this. The cast-iron stove was rusted and the covers cracked. He glanced into it. It was free of ashes and the wood-box was empty.

He came back and slowly mounted the stairs leading to the next floor. Stopping at the top, he listened. There was no sound. He entered the sleeping rooms one after another. The beds were stripped of blankets and the striped canvas of the mattresses was dusty and forbidding. There were six of these rooms but the farther one alone was habitable. Here a few blankets covered the bed and in the small fireplace there were ashes. They were cold, but he detected several bits of charred paper which were dry and crisp. Some old clothes were scattered about the floor and several minor articles which he scarcely noticed. He listened again. There was not a sound, and yet he had a feeling, born of what he did not know, that he was not alone here. The effect was to startle him. If he had been just a passing stranger looking for a place to lodge for the night it would have been sufficient to drive him outdoors again.

He came out into the hall which divided the rooms, and there saw a ladder which led into an unlighted attic. He paused. He heard her calling to him, but he did not answer. He would soon be down again.

He mounted the ladder quickly, and peered into the dark of the unlighted recess. He could make out nothing, and so clambered over a beam to the unfinished floor to wait until his eyes had become more accustomed to the shadows. His feet had scarcely touched a firm foundation before he was conscious of a slight noise behind him. He turned, and at the same moment a form hurled itself upon him. In the frenzied movement of the hands for his throat, in the spasmodic clutch of the arms which clung animal-like about him he recognized the same mad, unreasoning passion with which young Arsdale had before attacked him. He could not see his face, and the man uttered no cry. The fellow's arms seemed stronger than before and even longer. But he himself was stronger also, and so while the madman from behind clasped his hands below Donaldson's throat, the latter managed to get his own arms behind him and secure a firm grip on his assailant's trousers. Then he threw himself sideways and back as much as possible. They both fell, and Donaldson in the scramble got to his side and shifted one arm higher up. The fall, too, loosened the man's strangle hold though he still remained on top. Donaldson then fought to throw him off, but the fellow clung so close to his body that he was unable to secure a purchase.

The fight now settled down to a trial of strength and endurance between them. He strained his free arm as though to crush in this demon's ribs. He kicked out with his feet and knees; he dug his head into the fellow's chest. The latter clung without cry or word like a living nightmare. His hand was creeping towards Donaldson's throat again. He felt it stealing up inch by inch and was powerless to check it. He rolled and tumbled and pushed. Then his head came down sharply on a beam and he lost consciousness.

In the meanwhile Miss Arsdale had waited at the front door, her ears to the panels. For a few moments she heard Donaldson's footsteps moving about the house, but soon the walls swallowed him up completely. She ran back a little and strained her eyes towards the upper windows. They were darkened with shades. She felt a keen sense of responsibility for not having told him, from the start, of what a demon Arsdale became when cornered in this condition. She had half concealed the fact because of shame and because—she shuddered back from the mere thought of another possibility so terrible that she could not yet even admit it to herself. She comforted herself with the memory that at the last moment she had feebly warned. But twice before she had refused to admit to him the worst.

She waited as long as she was able to endure the strain and then skirted the house to the rear. The kitchen door was wide open. She pushed forward into the middle of the house, calling his name. Receiving no response, she mounted the stairs to the second floor. She glanced into each room. In the farther one an article on the floor, which had escaped Donaldson's notice, riveted her eyes. It was an empty pocket-book. It was neither her own nor Arsdale's. Instead of finding relief in this, it drove her back trembling against the wall. Then with swift resolution she gathered herself together, picked up the wallet and hid it in her waist. As she did so, she turned as though fearful that some one might be observing her act.

She made her way out into the hall again and there found herself confronting Donaldson—dusty, bruised, and dishevelled.

He was leaning against the ladder.