"I feel cold--and a little frightened," she whispered.

He offered to close the window, but she seized hold of him and begged
him not to leave her side even for an instant.

"It's upstairs, I know," she whispered, with an odd half laugh; "but I
can't possibly go up."

But Shorthouse thought otherwise, knowing that in action lay their best
hope of self-control.

He took the brandy flask and poured out a glass of neat spirit, stiff
enough to help anybody over anything. She swallowed it with a little
shiver. His only idea now was to get out of the house before her
collapse became inevitable; but this could not safely be done by turning
tail and running from the enemy. Inaction was no longer possible; every
minute he was growing less master of himself, and desperate, aggressive
measures were imperative without further delay. Moreover, the action
must be taken _towards_ the enemy, not away from it; the climax, if
necessary and unavoidable, would have to be faced boldly. He could do it
now; but in ten minutes he might not have the force left to act for
himself, much less for both!

Upstairs, the sounds were meanwhile becoming louder and closer,
accompanied by occasional creaking of the boards. Someone was moving
stealthily about, stumbling now and then awkwardly against the
furniture.

Waiting a few moments to allow the tremendous dose of spirits to produce