For more than fifty years Murphy had led a most wicked life. He had once been married, and it was said of him that he had starved his wife to death.
Monte was a firm believer in eternal punishment. It was not the physical torture of death he feared; it was the hereafter.
Burt believed it was his bounden duty to tell the sufferer the truth. Murphy used to tell himself that one day or another he would begin a life of repentance. The day never came, and now he stood on the threshold of an after-life.
“Oh!” he said, in the most bitter anguish; “I must surely have some little chance!”
Burt shook his head, but did not otherwise reply.
“Give me some of that.”
Monte pointed to a flask upon the mantel. Burt smelled of the flask, and found it contained whisky. He handed it to the wounded man.
Monte gulped down a big drink. The liquor gave him false courage.
“I won’t die; I feel better already,” he said. “Now, what brings you here?”
“I came to recover the property you stole.”