“Go on, David.”
“And this,” holding up the paper, “tells you that they ken as I ken noo, as maist o' them ha' kent this mony a day, that your Wullie, Red Wull—the Terror—”
“Go on.”
“Is—”
“Yes.”
“The Black Killer.”
It was spoken.
The frayed string was snapped at last. The little man's hand flashed to the bottle that stood before him.
“Ye—liar!” he shrieked, and threw it with all his strength at the boy's head. David dodged and ducked, and the bottle hurtled over his shoulder.
Crash! it whizzed into the lamp behind, and broke on the wall beyond, its contents trickling down the wall to the floor.