Irma Gluyas shrieked as she clung to her lover and bade him save
her as the wild lightning bolts rent the darkness. It was a horrid
elemental tumult!

A few hundred yards away a heavy closed carriage was slowly creeping
along the drive between the hotels. "Run for your life!" shouted
Clayton to the eager Madame Raffoni. "Stop that carriage. Offer
him anything, everything! I will carry her. I must save her."

Bending himself to the task, Clayton raised the fainting form of
Irma Gluyas. Her long hair lowered, swept around her in the storm;
her sculptured arms clung to him, and her warm heart thrilled him
as he sped on through the driving torrent. He was possessed with
Love's last delirium.

In the violence of the storm, Clayton could only motion "forward"
as he closed the door of the carriage and the frightened horses
set off at a mad gallop. The inmates of the carriage never saw the
bridge as the vehicle swayed from side to side in the blue-flamed
lightning flashes.

They were nearing Brooklyn when, in the still driving storm,
Clayton descended and procured some restoratives at a pharmacy.

He poured a draught of strong wine between the affrighted woman's
pallid lips, and then whispered, "You must tell me where to take
you. It is life or death now."

And then Irma Gluyas, her head resting on Madame Raffoni's bosom,
feebly whispered, "To my home, 192 Layte Street."