Twice was that cry repeated, and I sped to the house whence it emanated. The place was in complete darkness. No light shone from any window of the gloomy, dismal house.
A third time was the shriek repeated, coming from the room behind the railing on a level with the door. As I stood upon the pavement I was only a few feet from the window.
“Help! Help! For God’s sake, help! You brute! I thought I had escaped you. No! Ah! Don’t! I beg—I implore you! Ah!” shrieked a refined voice, the voice of a young woman. And then, in despairing tones that grew fainter with every syllable, I heard the words long drawn out. “Ah! You—you’ve—killed—me! Killed me!—just as you killed my—dear—father!”
I stood listening to that dying appeal, bewildered, utterly staggered.
What could I think? Place yourself in my position and ask yourself what you, in those circumstances, would have thought?
Chapter Seven.
Another Person Becomes Inquisitive.
I was uncertain what to do. Was it best to ascend the steps, knock boldly at the door, and inquire the reason of that frantic appeal? Or should I remain silent and watch?