shouted
Clayton to the eager Madame Raffoni. "Stop that carriage. Offer
him anything, everything! I will carry her. I must save her."

Bending himself to the task, Clayton raised the fainting form of
Irma Gluyas. Her long hair lowered, swept around her in the storm;
her sculptured arms clung to him, and her warm heart thrilled him
as he sped on through the driving torrent. He was possessed with
Love's last delirium.

In the violence of the storm, Clayton could only motion "forward"
as he closed the door of the carriage and the frightened horses
set off at a mad gallop. The inmates of the carriage never saw the
bridge as the vehicle swayed from side to side in the blue-flamed
lightning flashes.

They were nearing Brooklyn when, in the still driving storm,
Clayton descended and procured some restoratives at a pharmacy.

He poured a draught of strong wine between the affrighted woman's
pallid lips, and then whispered, "You must tell me where to take
you. It is life or death now."

And then Irma Gluyas, her head resting on Madame Raffoni's bosom,
feebly whispered, "To my home, 192 Layte Street."

There was not a word spoken as, in the midnight darkness of the
storm, the horses struggled along until, under the shelter of the
high houses, the carriage stopped before the desolate-looking old
mansion.

There was a look of terror on Madame Raffoni's face which was not
lost upon Clayton. "Get the door open," he hoarsely cried. "I will
carry her in. Then, I swear to you, I will leave her at once."

The strong man sprang from his place, and in a few moments he stood
within the veiled splendors of the old drawing-room.

Kneeling by the bed, wherein he had deposited the senseless woman,
Clayton chafed her marble hands in an agony of despair.

But, even in his lover's exaltation, he listened to Madame Raffoni,
who knelt before him in passionate adjuration. "Go, go!" she cried
in broken pathos. "I will come to you to-morrow."

And she dragged him to the door. "I will all do; everything! I
swear! Yes! Yes!! Yes!!!"

With one last despairing look, raining passionate kisses upon the
marble lips of the woman he loved, Randall Clayton left the dusky
magnificence of the superb apartment, and only halted at the door
long enough to whisper to the Raffoni, "Bring me to her to-morrow,
and I will make you rich!"

And the poor woman dumbly covered his hands with obedient kisses.
"Go, go!" she cried. "I will come!"

And,