“Fine words,” I said threateningly; “fine words. But this is no time for them. She is in vital danger—”
“Danger!” he screamed, clawing at the red blankets. “My God! Has it come? What form? Quick, I say! What form?”
“It is because you can shed light upon it that I have come,” said I. “We know little. She has sent her husband away—”
“Damn him!” he choked.
“She has locked herself in her room. She has been so for three weeks. The maid—”
“Margaret Murchie,” he whispered. “She believes that I am dead?”
I nodded.
“I know nothing,” he said. “The girl is not of me or mine.”
“Come, come,” said I. “It is time for disclosure.”
He arose, searched under the corner of the mattress a moment, and then, with a quick, panther-like movement, sprang upon the bed again, holding a revolver in his two claws.