For one second the artist stood irresolute, and then darting towards the secret opening, he disappeared from view.
The cell seemed to swim around me, a mist passed before my eyes, and then dimly as in a dream I became conscious that I was reclining in an oaken chair, supported on one side by my uncle and on the other by Daphne. The door of the tower was wide open, hanging obliquely on one hinge. Someone was putting a lighted match to the wick in the antique iron lamp, and its bright flame lit up a crowd of faces that were bent upon me with wondering looks. At one end of the cell some men, a helmeted police-officer among the number, were kneeling, fingering and clawing at the stone slab which the artist had pulled down after him to cover his retreat.
"It must be chained down," I heard the Baronet saying. "Pass the crowbar. Damn it! the fellow will escape."
"His eyes are open," I heard Daphne saying. "Oh, Frank, you are not hurt, are you?"
She was now kneeling beside me, her lovely eyes full of tenderness and sympathy. It was worth all the agony I had endured to be the object of her sweet pity. I tried to speak, but emotion checked my utterance, and I could reply to her question only by an assuring smile.
"You are looking like the very dead," said the doctor. "Here, take a drop of this. This will revive you."
"Is my hair grey?" I murmured, putting my hand to my head, as if it were possible to ascertain by the sense of touch. "Do I look old? I feel like a captive liberated from the Bastile. How long have I been in this prison? Years upon years?"
In a few words I told my shuddering listeners of the artist's designs on me. From regard to Daphne, I reserved the story of George's end for another occasion.
"Ay, ay," remarked the doctor, gravely shaking his head. "I saw this morning that he exhibited all the symptoms of insanity. Genius and madness are often allied."