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.