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..