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." There was not a word spoken as, in the midnight darkness of the storm, the horses struggled along until, under the shelter of the high houses, the carriage stopped before the desolate-looking old mansion.
There was a look of terror on Madame Raffoni's face which was not lost upon Clayton.

"Get the door open," he hoarsely cried.

"I will carry her in.