Chapter LII

Mr. Rodney did not pause to see the result of his maddened deed. He threw the smoking pistol far from him, sprung over the body of his prostrate victim, and rushed up the stairs, two at a time, in his eagerness to find his runaway daughter.

At the head of the stairway he found himself in another long, wide hall, richly carpeted and dimly lighted by a large swinging lamp. On either side stretched a row of closed doors, and as he gazed at them irresolutely one on the left opened hurriedly, and a woman rushed out and came running down the hall toward him. His heart leaped into his mouth. Could that be Aline?

But as she came quickly up to him, he saw that he was mistaken. It was not Aline. It was an old woman in a cap and glasses.

She ran up to him and caught him quickly by the arm, and then he saw that there had been a mutual mistake, for when she saw his face she recoiled from him in terror.

“My God!” she said, “I thought that it was Mr. Delaney. What are you doing here, sir?”

“I am seeking my daughter. Bring her to me, woman,” he cried, wildly, catching her by the sleeve as she was about to rush away from him.

“You are Mr. Rodney,” she said, looking curiously into the strange face with its wild, excited eyes.

“Yes, I am Mr. Rodney,” he answered, in hoarse, strained accents. “I am the father of the wickedest girl that ever cursed a father’s life. Woman, woman, where is my Aline? Bring her here to me, that I may curse her for her sins!”

“O, Mr. Rodney, she is not here,” cried Mrs. Griffin, regarding his wild strange visage tearfully.

“It is false. I _know_ that she is here,” he thundered at her.

“Oh, sir, you are mistaken. Miss Rodney is not here,” she answered. “But I heard the sound of a shot. What was it? My master--”

“Yes, I have murdered your master. He stole my pure darling from me, and now he has paid for the sin with his life. He lies down there in his own hall, shot to the heart by an avenging father,” cried Mr. Rodney, with a harsh laugh, of satiated hate and revenge.

Mrs. Griffin did not wait to hear another word. She pushed him from her, with a piercing cry of grief and terror, and ran headlong down the stairway. Mr. Rodney, released from her detaining presence, set about his search for his missing daughter.

Outside, the soft, cruel snow still fell with slow regularity, and the rising wind tossed it into deep, treacherous drifts. He dreamed not that while he sought her amid the gloomy splendor of Delaney House, his fair and tender Aline was wandering in all the perils of that winter night. He did not believe the combined assertions of Oran Delaney and his housekeeper that Aline was not in the house.

Where could she be but here? he thought, and in his heart he vowed that if he found her he would kill her, too--the wicked girl who had broken her father’s heart and made him a wretched murderer.

In his horror at her sin, he was fast becoming a monomaniac. The blood upon his hands only whetted his thirst for more. In his madness, it seemed to him that the horror of her sin could only be wiped out in her blood, shed as an expiation.

He had vaguely noticed that the door from whence Mrs. Griffin had issued had been left slightly ajar. Perhaps she was in there, he thought. He would go and see.

He crept softly along the hall toward the door of that room. He vaguely wondered if this was the hidden blue room of Dr. Anthony’s story. Would his sight be blasted by the sight of her, his little Aline, who had been the pet and darling of his life, sitting there contentedly in splendid sin, mistress of the vile wretch whom he had slain in his anger?

He crept softly to the door and peered in through the narrow crevice made by the slight opening of the unlatched door. He peered into the room, and it was with difficulty that he repressed a cry of horror. Heavens! Was this a fiend that his straining gaze encountered?

It was a large, splendidly furnished room into which he gazed, all purple and gold, with soft, luxurious couches and chairs, large, fine pictures on the walls, and everything that could please the eye save and except the many little objects of delicate _bric-à-brac_ in which feminine eyes and tastes delight. The room was utterly void of such trifles. It was splendidly, even garishly furnished, but everything was strong and substantial. There was nothing light and airy in the large, lofty apartment, with its large, white lamp swung from the ceiling out of reach, and the glowing fire before which a wire guard had been carefully placed.

But the wire guard had been ruthlessly torn away from the fire now, and the sole inmate of that luxurious room was a creature that might have struck terror to a heart even more desperate than was the lawyer’s as he gazed into the room.

“My God, what is it? Can it be a human creature, or is it a fiend from the nether world?” he asked himself.

He might well ask himself the question. The creature on which he gazed was a small, misshapen thing, with such horribly distorted features, as caused a shudder of loathing to run through Mr. Rodney. The crooked form was clothed with an almost barbaric splendor of apparel--in crimson satin, embroidered in golden thread, while the fire of priceless diamonds flashed from the yellow arms and neck, and upon the tangled braids of coarse, black hair that fell down her back.

She--for he had concluded that it was a woman from the long, black hair, and the womanly apparel--had snatched a fire-brand from the glowing grate, and was now running about the room, uttering discordant shrieks of fiendish glee, while with a ruthless, vandal hand she held the flaming brand now here, now there, against the satin hangings and the filmy lace curtains, the lambrequins, the silken fringe of the chair-covers, until all became a smoldering mass, through which small jets of lurid flame began to creep weirdly.

Mr. Rodney gazed for a moment like one fascinated upon this horrible scene, and then he made a bold and desperate dash into the room.

He ran up behind the horrible fire-fiend, threw his arm over her shoulder, and wrenched the flaming brand from her clasp, threw it down upon the floor, and trampled it into a black, charred mass. Then he was obliged to turn round and defend himself.

For the dreadful woman had thrown herself fiercely upon him, and was choking his life out with her long, talon-like fingers and sharp nails, that held his throat in a vise-like pressure. Half strangled, he made a supreme effort against the furious maniac, and succeeded in tearing her hands away from their murderous hold. She was wonderfully strong and agile, but he held her firmly, and wild screams of rage issued from her distorted lips. He recognized the sounds as those that had so frightened him in the earlier part of the evening.

“This, then, was the ghost of Delaney House!” he thought grimly. “My God what can this terrible creature be to Oran Delaney, and does Aline know of her existence?”

He held her firmly by both hands while she bit and tore and raved in a frenzy of maniacal fury. He was perplexed what to do with her. He knew that she was a dangerous creature, but he would not have harmed her for the world. She was already too terribly blasted in body and mind. But he longed to make some disposal of her that he might make some effort to quench the smoldering flames that already filled the room with a thick and suffocating black vapor.

She solved the question for him herself by suddenly wrenching her hands from his and making a rapid exit through the open door. It did not occur to him to follow her. Instead he threw all his energies into the task of subduing the flames.

He tore down the heavy satin hangings and trampled them beneath his feet, he found an ewer of water and deluged the smoking cushions of the chairs and lounges fighting bravely amid the smoke and fire, reckless that his strong hands were torn and burned with the superhuman efforts that he made.