Martin Brattle had seen Frank Merriwell under other circumstances, and knew Merry was nervy, but this was something more than the villain had anticipated.
“If I were to give a very slight pressure, this keen blade would penetrate your jugular vein, and then all the doctors in Paris could not give you one hour of life.”
“That’s right, Brat,” admitted Frank. “When the jugular is penetrated, a fellow is done for.”
“Then speak!” ordered Martin fiercely. “Speak, or I will tap the vein, and you shall see your life-blood spouting from your neck!”
Browning’s teeth cracked as they grated together.
“It’s no use,” said Frank coolly; “you can’t force me to speak in that way, Brattle. Go ahead with your devilish work.”
Martin Brattle sprang back and stood panting, trembling, and glaring at his captive.
“What are you made of?” he faltered.
“Flesh and blood,” was the answer; “but not the kind of flesh and blood that quakes before a dastard like you!”
“Still you know I can kill you!”