"Give it back," commanded Harris.
"After a while," was the quiet assurance. "Not now. I don't care to trust you with it till——"
He did not finish, but his meaning was plain. He believed Harris treacherous, and he would not trust the fellow till he was sure there would be no opportunity to use the knife on Merriwell.
But Sport's rage had cooled, and now he himself was sick at heart when he thought how near he had been to committing murder. Passion had robbed him of reason for a time, but now cowardice robbed him of his false nerve, and he was white and shaking.
Frank had watched the struggle between the two men with interest and anxiety, for he realized that his life might depend on the outcome.
He fully understood that Mazarin had not saved him out of pity for him, but because the little man was more level-headed than his accomplice, and not such a ruffian.
No matter if Mazarin did hate Merry, he was not ready to stain his hands with blood in order to satisfy his desire to "get even."
A student of human nature, Frank understood Harris very well, and he saw when the reaction came. He knew well enough that all danger was past when he saw the former Yale man grow white and tremble all over.
In the past Merry had sometimes experienced a thrill of sympathy for the young gambler, understanding how youths who are fairly started on the downward course almost always find it impossible to halt and turn back. One crooked act leads to another, and soon the descent becomes swift and sure, leading straight to the brink of the precipice of ruin, upon which not one man in a thousand has the strength to check his awful career, obtain a foothold and climb back to the path of honesty that leads to the plain of peace.
Now it was plain that Harris had sunk so low that there was little hope for him. He was almost past redemption.