smoothly around his body, his silk hat still in his hands.

"Awe, how do you do, Meezter Cowperwood," he was beginning to say, his
curly head shaking in a friendly manner, "I'm soa glad to see you
again" when--but who can imitate a scream of terror? We have no words,
no symbols even, for those essential sounds of fright and agony. They
filled the hall, the library, the reception-room, the distant kitchen
even, and basement with a kind of vibrant terror.

Cowperwood, always the man of action as opposed to nervous cogitation,
braced up on the instant like taut wire. What, for heaven's sake,
could that be? What a terrible cry! Sohlberg the artist, responding
like a chameleon to the various emotional complexions of life, began to
breathe stertorously, to blanch, to lose control of himself.

"My God!" he exclaimed, throwing up his hands, "that's Rita! She's
up-stairs in your wife's room! Something must have happened. Oh--" On
the instant he was quite beside himself, terrified, shaking, almost
useless. Cowperwood, on the contrary, without a moment's hesitation
had thrown his coat to the floor, dashed up the stairs, followed by
Sohlberg. What could it be? Where was Aileen? As he bounded upward a
clear sense of something untoward came over him; it was sickening,
terrifying. Scream! Scream! Scream! came the sounds. "Oh, my God!
don't kill me! Help! Help!" SCREAM--this last a long, terrified,
ear-piercing wail.

Sohlberg was about to drop from heart failure, he was so frightened.
His face was an ashen gray. Cowperwood seized the door-knob vigorously
and, finding the door locked, shook, rattled, and banged at it.

"Aileen!" he called, sharply. "Aileen! What's the matter in there?
Open this door, Aileen!"

"Oh, my God! Oh, help! help! Oh, mercy--o-o-o-o-oh!" It was the moaning
voice of Rita.

"I'll show you, you she-devil!" he heard Aileen calling. "I'll teach
you, you beast! You cat, you prostitute! There! there! there!"

"Aileen!" he called, hoarsely. "Aileen!" Then, getting no response,
and the screams continuing, he turned angrily.

"Stand back!" he exclaimed to Sohlberg, who was moaning helplessly.
"Get me a chair, get me a table--anything." The butler ran to obey, but
before he could return Cowperwood had found an implement. "Here!" he
said, seizing a long, thin, heavily carved and heavily wrought oak
chair which stood at the head of the stairs on the landing. He whirled
it vigorously over his head. S