The Case for the Crown by Fred M. White — Read

From the lips of the tortured man there came a queer, horrible whistling scream, the scream of a man on the verge of epilepsy. His eyes were full of a nameless horror, the sweat poured down a face white and ghastly. Molyneux staggered across the room in the direction of the fireplace, where a large plant in a big pot stood. He picked it up, and held it at arm's-length as if it were a feather weight. At that moment he possessed the strength of a dozen men. Then the pot came crashing down upon the Persian carpet, and the next moment the tortured drunkard was fighting a legion of unseen horrors as if his life depended on it. His cries rang through the house, they echoed out into the garden and carried far down the road. But it was only for a brief space, and then the temporary madness passed, leaving Molyneux faint and helpless, and so spent that he dropped into a chair with no strength left in that big frame of his. He wiped the horror from his face, and out of his eyes.

"For goodness sake, make haste," he cried in a voice so small and still that it hardly carried to Cecil's ears. "Give me a dose of the stuff that Barclay prescribed. Hurry up, or all those devils will be back again. Do what I tell you, or by Heaven I won't be responsible for what happens. Give me a double dose. If it kills me, so much the better for you."