Van Teyl was upon him suddenly with a low, murderous cry. Fischer had no time to resist, no chance of success if he had attempted it. He was borne backwards on to the lounge, his assailant's hand upon his throat. The young man was beside himself with drink and fury. The words poured from his lips, incoherent, hot with rage.
"You—hound! You've made my life a hell! You've plotted and schemed to get me into your power!… There! Do you feel the life going out of you?… My sister, indeed! You!… You scum of the earth! You …"
"James!"
The sound of Pamela's voice unnerved him. His fit of passion was spent.
She dragged him easily away.
"Don't be a fool, Jimmy!" she begged. "You can't settle accounts like that."
"Can't I?" he muttered. "If we'd been alone, Pamela … my God, if he and I had been alone here!"
"Jimmy," she said, "you're a fool, and you've been drinking. Fetch the water bottle."
He obeyed, and she dashed water in Fischer's face. Presently he opened his eyes, groaned and sat up. There were two livid marks upon his throat. Van Teyl watched him like a crouching animal. His eyes were still lit with sullen fire. The lust for killing was upon him. Fischer sat up and blinked. He felt the atmosphere of the room, and he knew his danger. His hand stole into his hip pocket, and a small revolver suddenly flashed upon his knees. He drew a long breath of relief. He was like a fugitive who had found sanctuary.
"So that's the game, James Van Teyl, is it?" he exclaimed. "Now listen."
He adjusted the revolver with a click. His cruel, long fingers were pressed around its stock.