The locked outer door had availed the traitor nothing. Mr.
Granger had come upstairs with the porter, who carried a bunch of duplicate
keys in his pocket.
Clarissa gave a sudden cry, which rose in the next instant to a shrill
scream. Two men were struggling in the doorway, grappling each other
savagely for one dreadful minute of confusion and agony. Then one fell
heavily, his head crashing against the angle of the doorway, and lay at
full length, with his white face looking up to the ceiling.
This was George Fairfax.
Clarissa threw herself upon her knees beside the prostrate figure.
"George! George!" she cried piteously.
It was the first time she had ever uttered his Christian name, except in
her dreams; and yet it came to her lips as naturally in that moment of
supreme agony as if it had been their every-day utterance.
"George! George!" she cried again, bending down to gaze at the white
blank face dimly visible in the firelight; and then, with a still sharper
anguish, "He is dead!"
The sight of that kneeling figure, the sound of that piteous imploring
voice, was well-nigh maddening to Daniel Granger. He caught his wife by the
arm, and dragged her up from her knees with no tender hand.
"You have killed him," she said.
"I hope I have."
Whatever latent passion there was in this man's nature was at white heat
now. An awful fury possessed him. He seemed transformed by the intensity of
his anger.
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