And through it
all the awful cry came up from that fathomless pit, whose entrance was
flooded with spots of fresh blood. Even the death of the fearless little
snake-killer--so fierce, so frightful, as if stained with a ferocity
which told of no living force above earth, but only of the devils of the
pit--was only an incident. Adam was in a state of intellectual tumult,
which had no parallel in his experience. He tried to rush away from the
horrible place; even the baleful green light, thrown up through the
gloomy well-shaft, was dying away as its source sank deeper into the
primeval ooze. The darkness was closing in on him in overwhelming
density--darkness in such a place and with such a memory of it! He made a wild rush forward--slipt on the steps in some sticky, acrid-
smelling mass that felt and smelt like blood, and, falling forward, felt
his way into the inner room, where the well-shaft was not. Then he rubbed his eyes in sheer amazement. Up the stone steps from the
narrow door by which he had entered, glided the white-clad figure of Lady
Arabella, the only colour to be seen on her being blood-marks on her face
and hands and throat. Otherwise, she was calm and unruffled, as when
earlier she stood aside for him to pass in through the narrow iron door. CHAPTER XIX--AN ENEMY IN THE DARK


Adam Salton went for a walk before returning to Lesser Hill; he felt that
it might be well, not only to steady his nerves, shaken by the horrible
scene, but to get his thoughts into some sort of order, so as to be ready
to enter on the matter with Sir Nathaniel. He was a little embarrassed
as to telling his uncle, for affairs had so vastly progressed beyond his
original view that he felt a little doubtful as to what would be the old
gentleman's attitude when he should hear of the strange events for the
first time. Mr. Salton would certainly not be satisfied at being treated
as an outsider with regard to such things, most of which had points of
contact with the inmates of his own house. It was with an immense sense
of relief that Adam heard that his uncle had telegraphed to the
housekeeper that he was detained by business at Walsall, where he would
remain for the night; and that he would be back in the morning in time
for lunch. When Adam got home after his walk, he found Sir Nathaniel just going to
bed. He did not say anything to him then of what had happened, but
contented himself with arranging that they would walk together in the
early morning, as he had much to say that would require serious
attention. Strangely enough he slept well, and awoke at dawn with his mind clear and
his nerves in their usual unshaken condition. The maid brought up, with
his early morning cup of tea, a note which had been found in the letter-
box. It was from Lady Arabella, and was evidently intended to put him on
his guard as to what he should say about the previous evening. He read it over carefully several times, before he was satisfied that he
had taken in its full import. "DEAR MR. SALTON,

   "I cannot go to bed until I have written to you, so you must forgive
   me if I disturb you, and at an unseemly time. Indeed, you must also
   forgive me if, in trying to do what is right, I err in saying too much
   or too little. The fact is that I am quite upset and unnerved by all
   that has happened in this terrible night. I find it difficult even to
   write; my hands shake so that they are not under control, and I am
   trembling all over with memory of the horrors we saw enacted before
   our eyes. I am grieved beyond measure that I should be, however
   remotely, a cause of this horror coming on you. Forgive me if you
   can, and do not think too hardly of me. This I ask with confidence,
   for since we shared together the danger--the very pangs--of death, I
   feel that we should be to one another something more than mere
   friends, that I may lean on you and trust you, assured that your
   sympathy and pity are for me. You really must let me thank you for
   the friendliness, the help, the confidence, the real aid at a time of
   deadly danger and deadly fear which you showed me. That awful man--I
   shall see him for ever in my dreams. His black, malignant face will
   shut out all memory of sunshine and happiness. I shall eternally see
   his evil eyes as he threw himself into that well-hole in a vain effort
   to escape from the consequences of his own misdoing. The more I think
   of it, the more apparent it seems to me that he had premeditated the
   whole thing--of course, except his own horrible death. "Perhaps you have noticed a fur collar I occasionally wear. It is one
   of my most valued treasures--an ermine collar studded with emeralds. I
   had often seen the nigger's eyes gleam covetously when he looked at
   it. Unhappily, I wore it yesterday. That may have been the cause
   that lured the poor man to his doom. On the very brink of the abyss
   he tore the collar from my neck--that was the last I saw of him. When
   he sank into the hole, I was rushing to the iron door, which I pulled
   behind me. When I heard that soul-sickening yell, which marked his
   disappearance in the chasm, I was more glad than I can say that my
   eyes were spared the pain and horror which my ears had to endure. "When I tore myself out of the negro's grasp as he sank into the well-
   hole; I realised what freedom meant. Freedom! Freedom! Not only
   from that noisome prison-house, which has now such a memory, but from
   the more noisome embrace of that hideous monster. Whilst I live, I
   shall always thank you for my freedom. A woman must sometimes express
   her gratitude; otherwise it becomes too great to bear. I am not a
   sentimental girl, who merely likes to thank a man; I am a woman who
   knows all, of bad as well as good, that life can give. I have known
   what it is to love and to lose. But you must not let me bring any
   unhappiness into your life. I must live on--as I have lived--alone,
   and, in addition, bear with other woes the memory of this latest
   insult and horror. In the meantime, I must get away as quickly as
   possible from Diana's Grove. In the morning I shall go up to town,
   where I shall remain for a week--I cannot stay longer, as business
   affairs demand my presence here. I think, however, that a week in the
   rush of busy London, surrounded with multitudes of commonplace people,
   will help to soften--I cannot expect total obliteration--the terrible
   images of the bygone night. When I can sleep easily--which will be, I
   hope, after a day or two--I shall be fit to return home and take up
   again the burden which will, I suppose, always be with me. "I shall be most happy to see you on my return--or earlier, if my good
   fortune sends you on any errand to London. I shall stay at the
   Mayfair Hotel. In that busy spot we may forget some of the dangers
   and horrors we have shared together.