“If anything happens to you,” he returned, ignoring my questions, “I am not to be blamed. I warned you in time to get away from this house. What do you think is in the cellar?”
“I dare to suggest there are six small graves.”
An ugly smirk went across his face and he cast a glance at the cellar door.
“You always were too smart for your own good,” he said softly. “Knowledge can be dangerous.”
“How did you think you could get away with it?” I screamed, only too well aware of his implication. “My God, Carse! Six human heads!”
His jaw hardened and he took a menacing step toward me. Then suddenly he stopped, a queer tragic expression coming over his face. He put his hand to his eyes as if to blot out some horrible memory.
“I know, I know!” he cried hysterically. “Six heads—six human heads! Do you think I planned six heads?”
A shudder went through him and he buried his face in both hands and sobbed like a child.
My personal fear gradually subsided as I watched this remorseful quiescence which had come upon him. I realized that he had passed the emotional climax of his crime, and that he was now suffering that terrible reaction which must haunt and terrify all criminals. I took this advantage to gain control of him, for there was no way of determining when his madness would flare again.