He would not be a coward. He struggled against the horror that was upon him.
And still the cold increased, and the personality of Fane's invisible companion seemed to develop in power. There was a sort of silent violence in the hidden room, as if a noiseless combat were taking place. Waves of darkness were stirred into motion; and Fane, as a man is drawn by the retreating tides of the sea out and away, was drawn from the wall where he had been crouching.
He stole along the floor, the dagger held in his right hand, his heart barely beating, his lips white—nearer, nearer to his enemy.
He counted each step, until he was enfolded in the inmost circle of that deadly frost emanating from the blackness before him.
Then, with a hoarse cry, he lifted his arm and sprang forward and upward, dashing the dagger down as one plunging it through a human heart.
The cry died suddenly into silence.
There was the sound of a heavy fall.
It reached the ears of the servants below stairs.
The footman took a light, and, with a scared face, went hesitatingly to the studio door, paused outside and listened while the female servants huddled in the passage.
The heavy silence succeeding the strange sound appalled them, but at length the man thrust the door open and peered in.