But Geoffrey fought on with the tenacity of one who plays for a great end. He closed in again and bore the foe backwards. He had him at last. If he could only hold on till assistance came, the dread secret might be unfolded. Then the figure took something from his pocket; the air was filled with a pungent, sickly sweet odor, and Geoffrey felt his strength going from him. He was powerless to move a limb. One of those greasy hands gripped his throat. In a vague, intangible way Geoffrey knew that that overpowering blinding odor was the same stuff that had come so near to ending the head of the family. If he breathed it much longer, his own end was come. He made one other futile struggle and heard approaching footsteps; he caught the gleaming circle of a knife blade swiftly uplifted, and his antagonist gave a whimper of pain as a frightened animal might do. The grip relaxed and Geoffrey staggered to the floor. "That was a narrow escape," a hoarse voice said. "Uncle Ralph!" Geoffrey panted. "How did you get here? And where has the fellow gone?" "I was close at hand," Ralph said coolly. "A minute or two sooner and I might have saved Gordon's wife, instead of your doing it. See, is there blood on this knife?" He handed a box of matches to Geoffrey. The long, carved Malay blade was dripping with crimson. But there were no signs of it on the floor. "Let us follow him," Geoffrey cried eagerly. "He can't be far away!" But Ralph did not move. His face was expressionless once more. He did not appear to be in the least interested or excited. "It is useless," he said, in his dull mechanical tones. "For in this matter you are as blind as I am. There are things beyond your comprehension. I am going down to see what is happening below." He began to feel his way to the staircase, Geoffrey following. "Are we never going to do anything?" the younger man exclaimed passionately. "Yes, yes. Patience, lad! The day of reckoning is coming as sure as I stand before you. But to follow your late antagonist is futile. You might as well try to beat the wind that carries away your hat on a stormy day." Mrs. Gordon sat in the dining-hall, pale, ashen, and trembling from head to foot. It seemed as if an ague had fallen upon her. Every now and then a short hysterical laugh escaped her lips, more horrible and more impressive than any outbreak of fear or passion. And yet there was nothing to be done, nothing to be said; they could only look at her with moist eyes and a yearning sympathy that was beyond all words. "It will pass," Mrs. Gordon said faintly. "We all have our trials; and mine are no worse than the rest. Gordon, take me to bed." She passed up the stairs leaning on the arm of her husband. Time was when these things demanded vivid explanations. They were too significant now. Ralph crept fumblingly over the floor till he stood by Marion's side. He touched her hand; he seemed to know where to find it. The hand was wet. Ralph touched her cheek.