Truly, Brant was yet very far from sainthood, either in act or intention, since he could look unmoved upon the ghastly face of the terror-sick man across the table. Harding leaned forward until his chin was nearly touching the cloth. His shifty eyes were for once fixed and glassy, and the perspiration of fear stood thickly upon his narrow brow. And with the dropping of the mask of self-control, the old age of dissipation wrought its will on the clean-shaven face, furrowing it with wrinkles that seemed to deepen visibly with the dragging seconds.
“Oh, my God! think of it, George,” he began again in a husky whisper, “think of what would happen if you were to die! And I’d never get so much as a hint of what was coming till they had snapped the bracelets on me! You couldn’t die easy with such a thing as that on your mind; now could you, George?”
Brant looked away and shut his hands until the finger nails bit the flesh. There was a moment of silence surcharged with the electricity of portent—a moment in which the limp figure at the opposite side of the table drew itself up by imperceptible degrees and the glassy eyes of it began to glow with the fires of unrecking ferocity. The athletic young head waiter, drawn to the door of No. 4 by what promptings of curiosity he knew not, had his eye glued to a crack in the panel and his ears strained to catch the reply to Harding’s appeal; and knowing nothing of the man, but much of the danger signals readable in the man’s face, he wondered at Brant’s preoccupation. And when Brant began to speak without looking up, the athlete swore softly to himself, and cautiously tried the handle of the door—tried it and found it locked.
“I have thought about that a good many times, and it has been a comfort to me. You called me a wolf a minute ago, but it is you who have lived the wolf’s life, sparing neither man, woman, nor child. Hence it is fitting that you should die as you have lived. Remembering these things, and how you used to wring my soul when you had the power, I think I shall die quite comfortably when my time comes.”
“Then die!” yelled the madman, hurling himself in a fierce tiger spring across the table at his tormentor.
Brant was by far the stronger of the twain, but the onset was so sudden and unexpected that he was borne down among the chairs, and Harding’s fingers were at his throat before he could gather himself in defense. After that he was helpless, and the dancing gas jets of the chandelier were about to go out in a flare of red lightning when the weight was lifted from his chest and he began to breathe again. Then he saw that the athletic waiter had set his shoulder to the door at the opportune moment; that he had flung Harding into a corner and was standing guard over him with a chair for a weapon.
“Say the word, Mr. Brant, and I’ll smash him one for good luck,” he said; but Brant sat up and shook his head.
“No; let him go,” he said huskily. “I can kill him later on if I need to.”
The young man stood aside, and Harding ran out. Then the athletic one helped Brant to his feet.
“He didn’t cut you, did he?” he asked.