As the words left his lips he realized their utter inadequacy.
With a scowl, Hanlon snatched the paper from his hands and wrote again.
“I’ll kill the man that did it—kill him!”
The word kill was heavily underlined in a pitiful attempt at emphasis.
As Stovebridge read the short line he felt a cold chill going down his back. He had not the slightest doubt that the fellow meant what he had written. But how had he found out? Who had told him? Was it possible that he could have witnessed the accident from some place out of sight?
He shot another glance at Hanlon and met the same malignant glare of hate. The fellow looked positively murderous.
The next moment the deaf mute had pulled a long, keen knife out of his pocket, which he held up before Stovebridge’s terror-stricken eyes and shook it significantly. At the same time he nodded his head fiercely.
Brose gave a low gasp as he gazed at the wicked blade with fascinated horror. Why had he ever come out here alone and given the fellow this chance? Why hadn’t he stayed with the others? No matter what else might have happened, he would have been safe. Arrest, conviction, disgrace—anything would have been better than this.
Overcome by a momentary faintness, he closed his eyes.
Suddenly the paper was twitched from his fingers, and, with a frightened gasp, he looked up.