ain! Open your
rotten eyes and look! Look! Look!"

Tranter was so startled that he almost lost his footing on the ivy.
There was no mistaking the voice--it was the scream of madness. He
listened for an answer, but there was no sound in response. Then the
same voice laughed--a laugh of awful bitterness.

"Are you satisfied? The thing is creeping on. I am getting nearer to
you hour by hour. I am more like you to-night. One more grain went
yesterday--another to-day. Another will go to-morrow...." Again the
voice rose to a shriek of rage and hatred. "Oh, God! There is no hope!
No hope! Only on--and on--to that!"

The words trailed off into a sob of agony. Still Tranter could hear no
reply.

Silence followed. The shadow again blotted out the light; then sprang
aside, and the voice burst out into a fresh paroxysm of madness, yelling
a stream of curses at the object of its fury. The madman's frenzy was
utterly revolting to listen to, but Tranter searched it closely for some
clue to the identity of the person, or thing, to whom it was addressed.
The voice rose again to a shriek; then subsided as before into a feeble
wail of misery.

"Oh God!" it moaned--"is there no way ... no way? No road but that road?
No end but that end? Oh God, have mercy ... have mercy...."

It was a cry of unspeakable anguish--the prayer of a soul in torment. It
seemed to Tranter that the speaker had thrown himself down, and was
beating the floor with his hands.

There was silence again. Then, for the first time, Tranter became aware
of another presence in the room. Though he could neither see nor hear
anything, he was conscious of a new, indefinable movement. For a moment
horror almost overcame him. He trembled. His nerves failed. The support
of the ivy seemed to be giving way under him. He clutched at the
framework of the window itself.

The shadow of a figure leapt up from the floor and bounded to the
window. The blind was wrenched aside, the window thrown open, and before
Tranter had time to recover himself or attempt to escape, the livid,
distorted face of George Copplestone was almost touching his own.

A hand closed on his throat in a murderous grip, another seized his
wrist. In spite of his frantic struggles, he was dragged with superhuman
strength through the window into the room.

CHAPTER XXIII

A DUEL

On the afternoon of the same day, an hour after the departure of
Inspector Fay, Mrs. Astley-Rolfe had sped herself to R