“Will you have one of my cigarettes?”
Manfred’s grave eyes fixed the doctor in a stare that held the older man against his will.
“I have had just one too many of your cigarettes,” he said. His words came like a cold wind. “I do not want any more, Herr Doktor, or there will be vacancies in your family circle. Who knows that, long before you compound your wonderful elixir, you may be called to normal immortality?”
The yellow face of Oberzohn had turned to a dull red.
“You seem to know so much about me, Mr. Manfred, as myself,” he said in a husky whisper.
Manfred nodded.
“More. For whilst you are racing against time to avoid the end of a life which does not seem especially worthy of preservation, and whilst you know not what day or hour that end may come, I can tell you to the minute.” The finger of his gloved hand pointed the threat.
All trace of a smile had vanished from Monty Newton’s face. His eyes did not leave the caller’s.
“Perhaps you shall tell me.” Oberzohn found a difficulty in speaking. Rage possessed him, and only his iron will choked down the flames from view.
“The day that injury comes to Mirabelle Leicester, that day you go out—you and those who are with you!”