Morton sunk back, bathed in cold sweat. In a few moments the old man reappeared, wiping his hands upon his dress. The outlaw shuddered convulsively as he noted the dark, red stains that discolored the skin. What deed of horror had been enacted in that further chamber?
“You can go back to your station, now, Lola,” he uttered, in a calm, even tone. “If I wish your presence, I will signal you. Now, sir,” he added, as the woman disappeared from view, “I can attend to you. But first, let’s see if there be any need of dressing your wounds. A man at my time of life dislikes unnecessary trouble. As I told you, if you are Jasper Morton, or indeed, any other than one of two persons, there will be no need of dressing your hurts, because, in that case, you must be disposed of, before you have a chance to make known what you have discovered concerning this place and its inmates.”
“You mean to—to murder me?”
“Exactly—that is the vulgar expression of what I mean.”
“Why did you take me in here then?”
“Because—first, you seemed very curious to learn what was going on inside; entirely too curious to suit my ideas of propriety. So I shot you, and I meant to end your pryings forever, too. But when I bent over you, to see if you were really dead, something in your face struck me, and I fetched you here to see what truth there was in the surmise. Now tell me—are you Jasper Morton; is that your real name?”
“No.”
“Good! then what is? Remember, that the truth alone can avail you, if any thing. Of course you can not guess the names that run in my mind. Speak out—what is your real name?”
Morton’s lips parted and his throat twitched, but he could not speak. The knowledge that his own lips might condemn him, was horrible. The resemblance that the old man had been struck with, might after all be mere fancy.
“Spare me—I will take any oath—will be your slave, your dog, if you spare my life,” he muttered, great drops of cold perspiration starting out over his forehead.