The man stood watching the effect of his words. He saw Olof's face darken, his nostrils expand and quiver. Saw him tremble from head to foot, like a tree about to fall, waiting but for the last stroke of the axe. Well, he should have it….
"Well—how does it feel?" He bowed mockingly, and went on with a sneer: "Wish you joy…. I've more reason, perhaps, than the others, seeing we're partners, so to speak, in the same…."
"Liar—devil—coward!" Olof's rage broke loose. A step forward, almost a spring, and with the strength of fury he seized the man by his coat with both hands and lifted him from the floor.
"Say your prayers!" hissed Olof between his teeth, still holding the man in mid-air, the shirt-front crushing under his grip. The man struggled helplessly once or twice, then hung limp; the cigar fell from his mouth, and Olof felt the body a dead weight in his hands.
"I … I've been drinking," he gasped—"drinking… don't know what I've been saying…." The words bubbled pitifully from the pale lips, like the last drops from an empty barrel.
"Well for you!" Olof set the man down and loosed his hold. "Or I'd….
Huh! Get out of this—d'you hear?"
The man staggered, looking this way and that, then turned and stole from the room without a word.
* * * * *
Olof stood alone. His brain was in a whirl, dazzling lights floated before his eyes.
"It must be true! No one would ever dare unless…." There was no doubt in his mind—it was only too natural that it should be so. The retribution he had feared so long—it had come at last, and ruined all in a moment.