"You made him write one for you?"
"Yes."
"What did you do with it?"
"I destroyed it afterward—of course."
Doyle was forced to accept the answer.
"And you were alone?"
"Absolutely alone with him. Let me tell it—listen to me—will you? We ate the halves of the bean. I still kept the gun on him. I was taking no chances. The minutes passed as I stood over him—five—ten.
"On which of us would the thing take effect first? It was a terrible wait. I will admit it. But it was the ordeal. We were just primitive men. Besides," he added, still keeping his glance from the face of Honora, who was leaning forward, her lustrous eyes trying to catch his, "I was playing for a big stake—it was death or what is really more than life to me."
He paused just a fraction of a second, but only a fraction, as though he himself were afraid of an interruption.
"At last I saw that his heart and lungs were beginning to be affected. His eyes were narrowed, the pupils to a pin-point—am I right about that, Professor? Never mind. In myself I waited for the same symptoms to appear. And I began to feel them, too. I was dizzy—with a burning thirst—but—alive! Still, I kept the gun leveled at him—the best I could, for my hand shook.