"So I've never thought twice about George Mellis. I'd as soon think o' you, sir. Then who can it be?"
Mr. Carlton bounded to his feet, white as his collar, and quivering to his nostrils.
"You want to know?"
"I mean to know, sir."
"And to kill him—eh?"
"I reckon I'll go pretty near it."
"Ah, don't do it by halves!" cried Carlton in a strange high voice. "Kill him now!" His hands fell open at his side; his head fell forward on his breast; and he who had sinned grossly against God and man, yet was not born to be a hypocrite, stood defenceless, abject, self-destroyed.
Moments passed; became minutes; and all the sound in the rectory study came from the rattling of its inner door, or through the outer one from the garden. Then by degrees a hard breathing broke on Robert Carlton's ears; but he himself was the next to speak, flinging back his head in sudden misery.
"Why don't you strike?" he cried out. "You've got your stick; strike, man, strike!"
It seemed an hour before the answer came, in a voice scarcely recognizable as that of Jasper Musk, it was so low and calm; yet there was an intensity in the deep, slow tones that matched the fearful intensity of the fixed light eyes; and the massive face was still and livid from the short steel beard to the virile silver hair.