It was the only item of any value which still belonged to him. Should he pawn it, or—
The gun was in his left hand. Mann was staring, fascinated, into the gleaming muzzle. Instinctively, his finger sought the trigger. He seemed in a little world of his own, within the circled glare of the table lamp.
Even the rest of the room about him was a black, unknown realm. Mann’s finger steadied. Then, from that outside world, came a black-clad hand that plucked the automatic from his grasp.
Mann stared upward to find himself facing a tall being, who seemed a fantastic specter come from nowhere.
The visitor was clad entirely in black. He wore a long black cloak, with a high collar that obscured his face. Over his forehead was the broad brim of a slouch hat. Two eyes were all that Mann could see eyes that glowed like sparkling coals.
The automatic disappeared beneath the folds of the black cloak. Mann, astounded and empty-handed, was unable even to gasp his surprise.
“Why do you seek death?”
The question came in a whispered voice. Its uncanny tones made Mann shudder; yet he felt no fear because of the stranger’s presence.
“There’s nothing to live for,” he replied. “I’m broke. No friends. No future. No one depends on me. I’ve reached the end — that’s all. Why hold off?”
A black-gloved hand advanced. The gun was replaced in Mann’s grasp. Mann felt that he was dreaming; that his harassed mind had fancied all this. The touch of the cold metal brought reality. But he held the gun loosely, his thoughts of suicide temporarily forgotten.