Beyond a low moan and a gasp Ruth uttered no sound when she saw her dearest friend, Luke Shepard, fall in the dimly lighted cellar, struck down, as he was, by the hand of some one unknown. She and Neale darted forward at the same time to go to the rescue.
It was after this first involuntary rush to help Luke that Neale bethought himself that caution might be needed, so he put out a hand to hold Ruth back and said:
“Maybe we’d better wait a moment.”
“Wait? And with Luke hurt? No, never!” cried Ruth. She would have proceeded alone to the spot where Luke was stretched out insensible but that Neale, resolving to fling caution to the winds, hastened ahead of her.
There was no sound in the cellar now save the noise made by Ruth and Neale, and they saw no dim forms flitting about. Luke was lying alone, strangely and ominously quiet.
Outside the rain was still pelting down, though the lightning and thunder was less, but the storm was keeping up.
“Luke! Luke!” called Neale, as he neared the prostrate body of the young collegian. “Are you much hurt?”
There was no answer, but in the kitchen over his head Neale could hear Agnes, Nalbro and Hal moving about uneasily as they caught the sound of his voice.
“Some one struck him with a club,” murmured Ruth. “Did you see it, Neale?”
“Yes, I saw. We must try to catch the man who did it. He’ll try to get out the rear door, I think.”