“How bold you are!” sneered Bunol, again. “But it is not on such as Durbin and Marsh I depend alone. A closed carriage passed you on the road shortly before you arrived here. I was in that carriage, and with me were men ready to cut your throat at a word of command from me. Should I give the signal they would come with a rush. Better be careful with that tongue of yours. If you do not arouse me too far, I may permit you to live yet a while longer; but in the end you shall die—and by my hand!”
Dick was becoming tired of the talk. He had fancied some one might enter the room, either the landlord or the friends he had left upstairs. Now, of a sudden, he heard a sound of heavy knocking coming from the upper part of the inn, as if some one were pounding furiously on a door.
“Your friends are growing impatient,” said Bunol. “They wish to get out, it seems.”
“Wish to get out?”
“Yes; they are locked in their rooms. One of my men attended to that after you left them, I presume. I gave orders to keep Buckhart and the old man away in case I found an opportunity to meet you face to face. But the place will be disturbed by the racket they are making. I hope you enjoy your supper here and your night’s rest. I’m sorry to say I have decided to leave you. It might be disagreeable if your party and mine were to remain beneath the same roof.”
Bunol started to rise from his chair, as if to depart.
Instantly, without warning and with a great bound, Dick reached the Spaniard and clutched him.
“Wait a minute!” he exclaimed. “Don’t be in such a hurry to go.”
With a furious exclamation, Bunol flashed out a knife and struck at the boy’s throat a blow that was much like a streak of lightning as the steel glinted in the gleaming firelight—a blow impelled by deadly hatred and murderous impulse.