One hand shot to his bosom. When it re-appeared something flashed dully in the dim light. At the same time, with a cat-like spring, he was out of his chair and upon me.
I concentrated all my attention upon the hand that held the murderous knife. I caught it as it lunged at me; then, with a quick twist, I bent it backward and behind him, until he groaned with pain. The long-bladed knife clattered to the floor, and I shoved him roughly away from me. Then I picked up the weapon.
The fellow acted for all the world like a whipped and cowed panther. He brought up violently against the wall, where, in a stooping posture, he commenced running to and fro the width of the room, spitting and snarling venomously. The pale eyes were no longer blank. The pupils had widened, and the look of them was deadly.
I smiled with quiet satisfaction, for I knew that Burke was—as we specify it in police parlance—"coming through."
After a while he quieted, and at last stood panting in the corner farthest away from me. I pointed to the chair.
"Sit down," I said, precisely as if he had n't tried his best to murder me but a minute before.
He moved slowly—fearfully—toward the chair, and sank into it. His head was dropped forward, his shoulders were bowed, and the fingers were no longer restless. All the man's defences were at last down.
"Now, then, Burke," I went on calmly, "I suppose we are ready to get down to business?"
He muttered inaudibly, without raising his head.
"What's that?"—sharply,