“So I didn’t quite get you, eh, Pitt? Well, it was pretty dark, though you did step out into the light like an accommodating lamb to the butcher. Well, what are you going to do?”
“Put up your hands.”
He looked at me, smiled, and calmly folded his arms across his chest.
“Putting up one’s hands is undignified. I do not do so. What are you going to do about it?”
I was nonplussed. Here I was, the victor. I was armed, he was helpless; and yet he had taken the upper hand. What did one do under such circumstances?
“This revolver is loaded, Brack,” I warned, but I knew that my speech was futile.
“I know it is: I can see the lead in the cylinder. That doesn’t make any difference. To be of any danger to me said loaded revolver must be in the hands of a man who is capable of shooting another man. You can’t do that, Pitt; you know you can’t. You’re too civilized. Try it. Just try it. Pick out a certain spot on me—my forehead, for instance—point the gun at that spot and pull the trigger. Try it. You’ll find that it’s a very hard thing to do—impossible for you, in fact.”
He laughed low.
“No, Pitt, you can’t shoot me.” With imperceptible movements he began to approach me. “Do you hear me, Pitt: You can’t shoot me—you can’t shoot me.”
Suddenly he stopped. His countenance seemed to break into flame. I heard a light step behind me and understood.