A heavy step was heard on the stairway, and a form plunged into the room, bearing Tarleton against the wall. It was no phantom, but the form of a stalwart man.
"Halloo! Who are you?" cried a hoarse voice,—it was the voice of Ninety-One, and as he spoke, shouts came up the narrow stairway from the passage below. "You set here to trap me,—speak?"
And the hand of Ninety-One, clutched the throat of Tarleton with an iron grip.
"This way,—this way," cried a voice, and a gleam of light shooting up the stairs, through the narrow doorway, fell upon the livid face of Tarleton.
"O, we have met at last? Do you hear them shouts? Blossom follered by the poleese are in the house, and on my track, for the murder of young Somers. In a second they'll be here. Now I've got you, and we'll settle that long account,—we will by G—d!"
"You are choking me,—A-h!" gasped Tarleton, as he was dragged toward the window. The shouts from below grew more distinct, and once more the light flashed up the stairs.
"Carl Raphael died by drownin' and that's very like chokin'," whispered Ninety-One, as he bent his face near to the struggling wretch. "I've no way of escape,—even old Fulmer can't save me. And so we'll settle that long account."
"You are choking me,—do not,—do not—"
"You know all the items, so there's no use o' dwellin' on 'em," the hoarse voice of Ninety-One was heard above the pelting of the storm, "but the murder of that 'ar boy makes the docket full. Here goes—"
Dragging Tarleton to the window, he struck the sash, with one hand, and then kicked against it with all his strength. It yielded with a crash, and the snow and sleet rushes through the aperture in a blast.