Awful expectation was manifest on the face of Potts.
“He told me of the mark on your arm. Draw up your sleeve, Briggs, Potts, or whatever other name you choose, and show the indelible characters which represent the name of Bowhani.”
Potts started back. His lips grew ashen. His teeth chattered.
“He gave me this,” cried the stranger, in a louder voice; “and this is the draft which you will not reject.”
He strode forward three or four paces, and flung something toward Potts.
It was a cord, at the end of which was a metallic ball. The ball struck the table as it fell, and rolled to the floor, but the stranger held the other end in his hand.
“THUG!” cried he; “do you know what that is?”
Had the stranger been Olympian Jove, and had he flung forth from his right hand a thunder-bolt, it could not have produced a more appalling effect than that which was wrought upon Potts by the sight of this cord. He started back in horror, uttering a cry half-way between a scream and a groan. Big drops of perspiration started from his brow. He trembled and shuddered from head to foot. His jaw fell. He stood speechless.
“That is my draft,” said the stranger.
“What do you want?” gasped Potts.