“That’s your sort! That’s the way I like to see a man meet the King of Terrors! Come—I will pledge you in this glass, and then I suppose we must go out and begin the ceremonies. Thunder! how time flies! It is actually a quarter to nine. We must make haste,” said Monck, filling his glass and approaching to touch the glass that Justin held towards him.
As the glasses clinked, the eyes of the two men met, and Justin, with a peculiar gesture, too slight to be noticed by an ordinary observer, raised his to his lips, and then set it down.
The glass of Monck nearly fell from his hand. He stared steadily at his prisoner for a full minute and then demanded:
“What was that for? Was that an accident or not?”
“What, an accident?” inquired Justin, innocently.
“That—that! Are you—But nonsense! I suppose it was an accident. Come, Colonel Rosenthal! ten minutes to nine, and we have got to go out. Come! it will be all over in a few minutes. What I do is not done in malice, and I hope you will bear no malice towards me,” said Monck, rising from the table.
“None whatever. In pledge of which, before we leave the board, let us shake hands,” said Justin, rising, and offering his hand to the guerrilla.
“Quite right!” exclaimed Monck, heartily, clapping his fat hand into the extended palm of Justin, who gave it a peculiar grip and shake.
Suddenly Monck sank down into his seat as if he had been shot.
“Then it wasn’t an accident!” he exclaimed, staring at his intended victim.