"What shall I do? If I persist, I shall destroy her. Jack had brought away the bunch of keys which he had taken from Quilt Arnold, but, none of them would open it. . . But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. She lifted the sheet and gestured for him to join her. Amongst others, a person near the door, roused by the shriek, observed a man make his exit with the utmost precipitation. The fellow swore lustily, in a voice which Jack instantly recognised as that of Quilt Arnold, and vainly attempted to rise and draw his sword.
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