He saw that the door was half open and that a man's figure stood revealed in the soft light of the hallway.

One hand was on the door knob, one foot was thrust forward as if the man were uncertain whether to plunge after her.
Evidently he decided against venturing out, for he stepped back into the vestibule and shut the door.
"Even these people have their little scraps," the bluecoat murmured sagely, and passed on.
Herbert Whitmore did not return to the room in which he had received the visitor.

Instead, he ascended the stairs to the library, and threw himself into the soft embrace of a wide leather chair.
The turmoil of his brain gave him an uncomfortable feeling of excitement, as if he were participating in something active and swift, which he but partly understood.

He was incapable of connected thought--everything was vague and shadowy before him.

In a dim way he recognized that he was standing in the way of an approaching avalanche, and gradually he began to discern the nature of the impending catastrophe.