Mr. Rodney did not pause to see the result of his maddened deed. He
threw the smoking pistol far from him, sprung over the body of his
prostrate victim, and rushed up the stairs, two at a time, in his
eagerness to find his runaway daughter.
At the head of the stairway he found himself in another long, wide
hall, richly carpeted and dimly lighted by a large swinging lamp. On
either side stretched a row of closed doors, and as he gazed at them
irresolutely one on the left opened hurriedly, and a woman rushed out
and came running down the hall toward him. His heart leaped into his
mouth. Could that be Aline?
But as she came quickly up to him, he saw that he was mistaken. It was
not Aline. It was an old woman in a cap and glasses.
She ran up to him and caught him quickly by the arm, and then he saw
that there had been a mutual mistake, for when she saw his face she
recoiled from him in terror.
“My God!” she said, “I thought that it was Mr. Delaney. What are you
doing here, sir?”
“I am seeking my daughter. Bring her to me, woman,” he cried, wildly,
catching her by the sleeve as she was about to rush away from him.
“You are Mr. Rodney,” she said, looking curiously into the strange face
with its wild, excited eyes.
“Yes, I am Mr. Rodney,” he answered, in hoarse, strained accents. “I
am the father of the wickedest girl that ever cursed a father’s life.
Woman, woman, where is my Aline? Bring her here to me, that I may curse
her for her sins!”
“O, Mr. Rodney, she is not here,” cried Mrs. Griffin, regarding his
wild strange visage tearfully.
“It is false. I _know_ that she is here,” he thundered at her.
“Oh, sir, you are mistaken. Miss Rodney is not here,” she answered.
“But I heard the sound of a shot. What was it? My master--”
“Yes, I have murdered your master. He stole my pure darling from me,
and now he has paid for the sin with his life. He lies down there in
his own hall, shot to the heart by an avenging father,” cried Mr.
Rodney, with a harsh laugh, of satiated hate and revenge.
Mrs. Griffin did not wait to hear another word. She pushed him from
her, with a piercing cry of grief and terror, and ran headlong down the
stairway. Mr. Rodney, released from her detaining presence, set about
his search for his missing daughter.
Outside, the soft, cruel snow still fell with slow regularity, and the
rising wind tossed it into deep, treacherous drifts. He dreamed not
that while he sought her amid the gloomy splendor of Delaney House, his
fair and tender Aline was wandering in all the perils of that winter
night. He did not believe the combined assertions of Oran Delaney and
his housekeeper that Aline was not in the house.
Where could she be but here? he thought, and in his heart he vowed that
if he found her he would kill her, too--the wicked girl who had broken
her father’s heart and made him a wretched murderer.
In his horror at her sin, he was fast becoming a monomaniac. The blood
upon his hands only whetted his thirst for more. In his madness, it
seemed to him that the horror of her sin could only be wiped out in her
blood, shed as an expiation.
He had vaguely noticed that the door from whence Mrs. Griffin had
issued had been left slightly ajar. Perhaps she was in there, he
thought. He would go and see.
He crept softly along the hall toward the door of that room. He vaguely
wondered if this was the hidden blue room of Dr. Anthony’s story.
Would his sight be blasted by the sight of her, his little Aline, who
had been the pet and darling of his life, sitting there contentedly
in splendid sin, mistress of the vile wretch whom he had slain in his
anger?
He crept softly to the door and peered in through the narrow crevice
made by the slight opening of the unlatched door. He peered into the
room, and it was with difficulty that he repressed a cry of horror.
Heavens! Was this a fiend that his straining gaze encountered?
It was a large, splendidly furnished room into which he gazed, all
purple and gold, with soft, luxurious couches and chairs, large, fine
pictures on the walls, and everything that could please the eye save
and except the many little objects of delicate _bric-à-brac_ in which
feminine eyes and tastes delight. The room was utterly void of such
trifles. It was splendidly, even garishly furnished, but everything was
strong and substantial. There was nothing light and airy in the large,
lofty apartment, with its large, white lamp swung from the ceiling
out of reach, and the glowing fire before which a wire guard had been
carefully placed.
But the wire guard had been ruthlessly torn away from the fire now, and
the sole inmate of that luxurious room was a creature that might have
struck terror to a heart even more desperate than was the lawyer’s as
he gazed into the room.
“My God, what is it? Can it be a human creature, or is it a fiend from
the nether world?” he asked himself.
He might well ask himself the question. The creature on which he gazed
was a small, misshapen thing, with such horribly distorted features,
as caused a shudder of loathing to run through Mr. Rodney. The crooked
form was clothed with an almost barbaric splendor of apparel--in
crimson satin, embroidered in golden thread, while the fire of
priceless diamonds flashed from the yellow arms and neck, and upon the
tangled braids of coarse, black hair that fell down her back.
She--for he had concluded that it was a woman from the long, black
hair, and the womanly apparel--had snatched a fire-brand from the
glowing grate, and was now running about the room, uttering discordant
shrieks of fiendish glee, while with a ruthless, vandal hand she held
the flaming brand now here, now there, against the satin hangings and
the filmy lace curtains, the lambrequins, the silken fringe of the
chair-covers, until all became a smoldering mass, through which small
jets of lurid flame began to creep weirdly.
Mr. Rodney gazed for a moment like one fascinated upon this horrible
scene, and then he made a bold and desperate dash into the room.
He ran up behind the horrible fire-fiend, threw his arm over her
shoulder, and wrenched the flaming brand from her clasp, threw it down
upon the floor, and trampled it into a black, charred mass. Then he was
obliged to turn round and defend himself.
For the dreadful woman had thrown herself fiercely upon him, and was
choking his life out with her long, talon-like fingers and sharp nails,
that held his throat in a vise-like pressure. Half strangled, he made
a supreme effort against the furious maniac, and succeeded in tearing
her hands away from their murderous hold. She was wonderfully strong
and agile, but he held her firmly, and wild screams of rage issued
from her distorted lips. He recognized the sounds as those that had so
frightened him in the earlier part of the evening.
“This, then, was the ghost of Delaney House!” he thought grimly. “My
God what can this terrible creature be to Oran Delaney, and does Aline
know of her existence?”
He held her firmly by both hands while she bit and tore and raved in a
frenzy of maniacal fury. He was perplexed what to do with her. He knew
that she was a dangerous creature, but he would not have harmed her for
the world. She was already too terribly blasted in body and mind. But
he longed to make some disposal of her that he might make some effort
to quench the smoldering flames that already filled the room with a
thick and suffocating black vapor.
She solved the question for him herself by suddenly wrenching her hands
from his and making a rapid exit through the open door. It did not
occur to him to follow her. Instead he threw all his energies into the
task of subduing the flames.
He tore down the heavy satin hangings and trampled them beneath his
feet, he found an ewer of water and deluged the smoking cushions of the
chairs and lounges fighting bravely amid the smoke and fire, reckless
that his strong hands were torn and burned with the superhuman efforts
that he made.