“The only people that don't talk are those that can't.”
“I know—but murder will out! Never knew it to fail. We have—ah!—you might say—ah!—borrowed a few trinkets from these gentlemen. They may get them back, possibly; but you can't ever bring back the breath of life if you decapitate them. What?”
“I tell you I will not leave them here to blab!” hissed the duke; and Boon could not help thinking of the anger of a rattlesnake with laryngitis. “A slight nick in the jugular and they'll bleed away painlessly. Just before the end they will begin to dream. By———, I'll do it! Right now!”
The duke pulled out a barber's razor, opened it, and approached Boon.
Something about his manner told the jeweler that this creature was about to cut their throats as much for the pleasure of it as because of the supposed safety. It was confirmed when the masked fiend wheezed, malignantly:
“It's sterilized!”
Mr. Boon was suddenly conscious of an extreme cold, as if he had been thrown naked into an ice-cave. On Pierce's face, grown gray, the sweat stood in a microscopic dew. Gaylord's florid face was livid and tense; J. Sumner Storrs had closed his eyes and seemed asleep, but the breath whistled unpleasantly through his nostrils.
“Stop!” said the colonel so sharply that the duke turned like a flash—to look into the barrel of a blue-steel automatic.
“Drop the razor, old chap! I can't let you kill the beggars in cold blood. Upon my soul, I can't, you know!” His head was jerking and twisting at a furious rate, but the revolver was as steady as a rock.
“It's our only chance. It won't hurt them. They won't feel it any more than a feather—it's so sharp,” whispered the black-masked devil.