At sight of the scene Cartice grew cold with fright; but she went close to Colonel Layton and was about to speak, when, without pausing in his razor whetting, he said, gently, “Go away, now, Mrs. Doring, and come back a little later if you want to.” In spite of the apparently innocent words, she felt that behind them lurked some terrible intention. If she called help the arrival of others might precipitate whatever horror lurked in his mad mind. Chrissalyn heard everything but said nothing, and her silence was eloquently ominous. “Why should I come again if I go away?” she asked, thinking to lead his mind from the work in hand. Shrugging his shoulders significantly, he said, “Merely to see sights,” and then laughed the low satisfied laugh of one who knows and enjoys things his listener dreams not of. “What sights?” Another shrug. His vanity, ever strong, overcame his secretiveness, and he could not refrain from boasting of his intended exploits. “The last of Chrissalyn and me,” he said, presently, with a chuckle. “I’m tired of the whole damned business of living, and shall give it up, but I shan’t leave her behind me. Oh, no! She goes first.” Though chilled to the marrow at this cool statement, whose truth the scene and the hour confirmed, Cartice pretended to put no stress upon it. Hurriedly racking her brains for some pretence for her call and pretext for his services, she said, “I’m sorry to trouble you just now, Colonel, but Louis is very sick, and I want you to go and ring up Barton’s night clerk and get some whiskey for him as soon as you can. You are always so kind and obliging; I’m sure you won’t mind my bothering you.” He was ever the most easily flattered creature. Then, too, there was magic for him in the word whiskey. “You’ll go, won’t you?” she asked, entreatingly, as he made no answer. “Yes, yes, of course,” he replied, absently holding the razor close to his eyes and looking critically at its edge, but making no move. “You will excuse me if I beg you to make haste, please,” she continued. “Poor Louis is in a wretched state.” He got up slowly, took his hat and began to waver about the room, still holding the open razor in his hand. As he moved toward Chrissalyn she raised the hand that clutched the pistol, and her eyes had a steady, determined look that said she would defend herself to the death. “Come, Colonel,” cried Cartice, apparently in good-natured haste, “I hear Louis groaning. Please go as quickly as you can.” He laid the razor down and went out and down the stairs as docile as a dog.