He threw himself at me in an hysterical outburst of emotion. He tried to smile through the tears in his eyes, but the sight was so awful that I turned my head.
“I am still unconvinced,” I said grimly. “The possibility of Number Seven is too important to overlook. Let me see Drukker’s diary.”
“Why?” he backed away and stared at me. “Why do you want to read the diary?”
“I want to read account Number Seven.”
Carse came forward again and grabbed my arm. He shook it. “What good will that do?” he asked anxiously, “if there are only six of them? Besides, it’s not a book you ought to read.”
“Give me the diary!” I demanded again.
He scowled at me for a moment; then, shrugging, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a small leather-bound book. It was well worn, as if by many thumbs, and in faded gold letters across the cover were the words: Personal Diary of Emil Drukker, J. U. D.
“Sit down,” I commanded. “And try to keep your nerves together. I shall do everything I can for you.”
He backed away and dropped into a chair, his eyes fastened upon me in a look of almost majestic joy. And yet there was an undertone in his expression which I could not define. There was defiance there ... and fear. One of his hands rested on the near-by table, less than two feet from the hilt of the butcher knife, and the fingers of that hand twitched nervously.