He tore her hand from his arm, but she threw her back against the door, panting, her dark eyes flashing wildly.
“If you go, it’s to your certain death!” she gasped. “Prince Berloff has arranged this. He will see that you do not escape. He wants to kill you.”
“Why?”
“If you could be killed—by accident—with no blame attaching to him—is there not some way in which it would benefit him?”
“Yes. But, countess—you must let me pass!”
“It will be to your death!”
“Perhaps. But I must warn the others!”
“No! No! I will not let you!” she cried.
“You leave me no other way!” and seizing her wrists he dragged her struggling from the door. He shook off her hands that again sought to detain him, and plunged down the stairway—leaving her collapsed upon the floor, white, motionless, on her face a stare of ghastly horror.
He leaped into his waiting sleigh and thrust a five-ruble note into the driver’s hands. “Back—at your best speed!” he cried—and though the driver laid the end of his lines upon the flanks of his galloping horse, Drexel constantly breathed, “Faster! Faster!”