That brought to a pitch the horror without the room, where lights shone

on frightened faces and huddled forms. In the height of it the landlord

and Sir George appeared. The woman's screams were so violent that it was

rather from the attitude of the group about the door than from anything

they could hear that the two took in the position. The instant they did

so Sir George signed to the servants to stand aside, and drew back to

hurl himself against the door. A cry that the poker was come, and that

with this they could burst the lock with ease, stayed him just in

time--and fortunately; for as they went to adjust the point of the tool

between the lock and the jamb the nearest man cried 'Hush!' and raised

his hand, the door creaked, and in a moment opened inwards. On the

threshold, supporting himself by the door, stood Mr. Dunborough, his

face damp and pale, his eyes furtive and full of a strange horror. He

looked at Sir George.

'He's got it!' he muttered in a hoarse whisper. 'You had better--get a

surgeon. You'll bear me out,' he continued, looking round eagerly, 'he

began it. He flung it in my face. By God--it may go near to hanging me!' Sir George and the landlord pushed by him and went in. The room was

lighted by one candle, burning smokily on the high mantelshelf; the

other lay overturned and extinguished in the folds of a tablecloth which

had been dragged to the floor. On a wooden chair beside the bare table

sat Mr. Pomeroy, huddled chin to breast, his left hand pressed to his

side, his right still resting on the hilt of his small-sword. His face

was the colour of chalk, and a little froth stood on his lips; but his

eyes, turned slightly upwards, still followed his rival with a grim

fixed stare. Sir George marked the crimson stain on his lips, and

raising his hand for silence--for the servants were beginning to crowd

in with exclamations of horror--knelt down beside the chair, ready to

support him in case of need. "They are fetching a surgeon," he said. "He

will be here in a minute."

Mr. Pomeroy's eyes left the door, through which Dunborough had

disappeared, and for a few seconds they dwelt unwinking on Sir George:

but for a while he said nothing. At length, "Too late," he whispered.

"It was my boots--I slipped, or I'd have gone through him. I'm done. Pay

Tamplin--five pounds I owe him."

Soane saw that it was only a matter of minutes, and he signed to the

landlord, who was beginning to lament, to be silent.

"If you can tell me where the girl is--in two words," he said gently,

"will you try to do so?"




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