With the air of a critic about to witness a rare drama, Motkin motioned to one of the half dozen men who stood about the room. The fellow, grinning with a toothless leer, approached.
“Let him taste the knife, Kolsoff,” ordered Motkin.
The underling drew a sharp blade from a sheath at his side. He approached Cliff Marsland, and waved the dirk above the helpless man. At a word from Motkin, he stood slightly to one side, so that his leader could witness the bloody work.
Motkin emitted a chuckling snarl. His lips paused as the word to kill trembled upon them. This moment was sweet to him. This would be the second of the intruding Americans to perish by the knife. One in Moscow — one in Paris.
Motkin thought of Senov. He had slain the leader of the Czarist invaders, and had annihilated his men.
Now his command would bring death to a member of another faction.
“Strike!” cried Motkin.
CHAPTER XVI. THE LAST SHOT
KOLSOFF poised the knife. The weapon was in his right hand; with his left he pointed to the exact spot where he was about to drive the sharp-tipped blade. His finger indicated Cliff Marsland’s heart.
Kolsoff’s back was toward the door; the men standing there drew into the room to witness the death blow. The poised hand wavered; then commenced its downward swing.