"You're a fool!"
Harris turned from his repentant companion, his disgust and anger redoubled.
Frank, for all of the bitter rage in his heart, could see that Mazarin was not entirely bad. The little man's conscience was troubling him now.
"I hate fools!" grated Harris. "I hate sentiment! A man with sentiment is a fool! You're a fool, Merriwell; you always were sentimental."
"As far as you are concerned," spoke the captive, "I shall put sentiment behind me in the future. I am satisfied that you are irreclaimably bad, and you have the best chance in the world of ending your career on the gallows."
"I don't care what you think."
"I didn't suppose you would care. You are too low and degraded to care. In the past I spared you when you should have been exposed and punished. Why? Because I hoped you would reform. Now I know there is no chance of that. For your own sake I spared you in the past; in the future, if my turn comes, for the sake of those with whom you will mingle and injure and disgrace, I shall have no mercy."
These words, for some reason, seemed to burn Harris like a hot iron. His eyes glowed evilly, and he quivered in every limb. He leaned toward Merriwell, panting:
"Your turn will not come! I might have let you go, but now——"
He glanced down at the knife in his hand.