"If the readers demand it, what can I do?"
"Obviously your readers are from an extremely low level of civilized society. I'm surprised that a bunch of savage, sadistic-minded brutes like that know how to read."
"It's no good resorting to insults," Dermitt said mildly. "In fact, you had better mind your manners or this Kitty of yours is going to get the surprise of her pallid little life."
For a long moment Fleetwood was silent, weighing the alternatives. "Okay," he said finally, giving in to the inevitable. "Okay, you win. All I ask is that you get it over with as soon as possible."
"Fair enough," Dermitt said with satisfaction. "And I'm prepared to be reasonable about the thing, Cassidy. In fact I'm willing to go to work right now, if you like. All I ask, though, is that you subdue those cowardly impulses of yours until I'm finished." He got up, crossed to the desk and sat down before the typewriter.
Watching with apprehension, Fleetwood stirred nervously and started to speak, but Dermitt motioned him to be quiet. The little man flexed his fingers, adjusted his monstrous glasses and regarded Fleetwood thoughtfully. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them with a nod of decision. He began to type.
A shudder of weakness passed through Fleetwood's long frame, and he tried to cry out, but suddenly his voice was only an echo of the clattering keys....
Fleetwood stirred, and consciousness seeped into his mind like a cold, grey fog.
"Fleetwood!"