But the groom on the back of the two-wheeled cart prayed to the saints, and clung for his life; the galloping horse, the swaying dog-cart, and a master who had suddenly gone crazy, were too much for him. The wind whistled past Cylmer’s ears with the speed of his going, but it seemed years before he stopped his reeking, blown horse at Marchant’s Hold. He was forced to wait while a policeman on guard read Kivers’ note and let him into the house. But there was not a soul to be seen, not a sound anywhere. As he listened in the dark, not knowing which way to turn, he heard a woman sob, up-stairs, far above him. He was up three steps at a time, lost in wonder as he ran. What in Heaven’s name were they doing in the garret? An open door; a lighted room; Mrs. Trelane and Thomas barring the way. Mrs. Trelane, free, scathless! Then it must be Ismay--Ismay! And he was too late. He could not move nor speak for the cruel pain that brought the cold sweat on his forehead. “Ismay.” He listened, silent, breathless; he dared not go in lest he should see her, now that he was too late. Davids’ voice, cold, incisive, startled him; then Wray’s. Yet it was not till Cristiane was kneeling by Ismay that he saw her. And then he saw nothing else. He was down by her side, lifting her, her blood on his hands, his heart craving her. The girl his self-righteousness had rejected, who, because he would not hear her and help her, had fought her battle alone--to die from it. He would not, would not have it! She was stunned; it must be that she was stunned. But the heart under his hand did not even flicker. “Are you going to let her die here?” he cried. “Move, Cristiane; let me carry her to her bed. You are her mother”--turning fiercely on Mrs. Trelane--“send some one for a doctor!” Tenderly, jealously, he lifted her, whom no other hands should touch. And as he carried her her lovely head fell backward on his arm, her hands hung at his side, swaying like a dead woman’s. Masterfully, as one who has a right, he sponged the blood from her face, when she lay on her bed in her fantastic dress. There was but a simple cut on her forehead--not enough to make her unconscious. “Why is she dressed like this?” he said sternly to Mrs. Trelane, who stood, dazed and helpless, not even wondering why he was there. “The house was said to be haunted. She played the ghost to overhear Marcus at night talking to me. She played it to-night to save Cristiane, and to get Marcus up to the room where the police waited for him,” for the inspector had spoken brutal truths to her, and at last she knew what the girl had done for her sake. She drew the bloody scarf from Ismay’s head, and Cylmer could see. Under her left ear was a bruise--only a little bruise; yet he groaned as he saw it. Wray, as she tripped, had struck her there, as a prize-fighter strikes, with the deadly accuracy of knowledge. No one should have her if he could not.