It was twenty minutes to eight when we arrived at Mellborough, and, as we had not sent word on, there was no carriage to meet us, nor, as it happened, any spare vehicle. After a brief word or two with the stationmaster, we decided to walk down into the town and order a fly. When we reached the house, the butler stepped forward, his ruddy face blanched and his voice shaking. "Thank God you are come, sir! The man you left here, he's gone a raving lunatic, and he's shut himself up there, and got your revolvers out, and swears that no one shall enter the room till you come." "There's someone with him," my father said quickly. The man's face seemed literally shrunken up with horror. "It's awful, sir; I've been near once, and I'll never get over it as long as I live. He's got some poor wretch there, killing him by inches, torturing him like a cat does a mouse. He's been shrieking for help for hours, and we can do nothing. The poor creature must be nearly dead now. Ah, there it is again, sir! Four of our men have been shot trying to get to him. Listen! Oh, why does he not die!" A low, faint cry, full of a most heart-stirring anguish, floated out from the library window. It was the most awful sound I have ever heard in my life. Following close upon it, drowning its faint echo, came the loud mocking laugh of the torturer, ringing out harsh and mirthless in hideous contrast. A deep, audible shudder passed through the little group of bystanders. Then my father, without a word, started forward across the lawn towards the window and I followed close behind. It seemed to me that everyone must be holding their breath, the silence was so intense. The wind had dropped for a moment, and the moon shone faintly down through a cloud of mist upon the white, eager faces, filled now with a new anxiety. A few swift steps brought us to the window. A lamp was burning upon the writing-table and the interior of the room was clearly visible. On the floor a little distance from the window was a dark shape which, as we drew nearer, we could see to be the prostrate figure of a man. Walking up and down in front of it, with short, uneven steps, was Francis, his hair and dress in wild disorder and his whole appearance betokening that he had recently been engaged in a desperate struggle. Suddenly he turned round and saw us. With a wild cry of rage he rushed to the window, the glass of which was completely wrecked, and glared at us threateningly through the framework. "Away! away!" he shrieked, "or there will be more trouble! I must stay here, I must wait till he comes! Let me be, I tell you!" The revolver, which he clenched in his right hand, was raised and levelled. It was a dreadful moment. "It is I, Mr. Ravenor," my father answered calmly. "Don't you know me, Francis?"