“Take your hands off!” he croaked, suffocatingly, as he struggled to release himself; but Jeffrey, though the older man of the two, seemed possessed of the strength of an athlete, and, after a desperate struggle, Spenser Churchill lay on his back, with Jeffrey’s knee on his chest, and Jeffrey’s fingers still choking him.
“Are—are you going to murder me?” he managed to gasp out.
“I am going to kill you!” was the grim reply, a wild, fierce light burning in the hollow eyes. “One kills a snake, not murders it. I kill you as I would any other vermin!”
“Jeffrey—let me go! Let me go, and I swear to keep your secret. I swear—my honor——”
An awful smile lit up the face above him.
“Trust her happiness to your oath!” he said, hoarsely. “Trust her to your honor!” the hands tightened, the sky grew black, the trees danced a mad carnival in Spenser Churchill’s eyes, and they were closing for the last time, when suddenly the steel-like fingers relaxed their hold; Jeffrey reeled back, and, throwing up his arms, screamed:
“Doris, Doris!” and fell across the man who, only a moment ago, was at his mercy.
Dazed, sick with terror, and half-suffocated, Spenser Churchill struggled to his feet and staggered to a tree. He leaned against it for a moment or two, panting and gasping, tugging at the collar of his shirt, and regaining his breath, and at last he looked shudderingly at the still form upon the ground.
Still shuddering, he went toward and knelt over it.
“Fainted!” he exclaimed, hoarsely. “Another moment!” a shiver ran over his sleek, white face. “Another moment and I should have been lying like that. The madman!”