"It is."
"And you would take my arm to these people for them to stare and gape at. No, sir; I am foolish enough to seek to conceal my affliction from the world, and by the aid of this wonderful arm I have been hitherto successful."
The doctor bowed.
"So I beg you will keep my secret."
"Rely upon it."
Hunston showed all his old cunning in this speech. Yet all his inquiries, all his researches, availed him nothing.
The work of the dead Robert Emmerson remained as before, an inscrutable mystery. It remained the silent executor of its creator's vengeance.
Slowly, yet surely fulfilling the blood-stained legend on the steel arm.