The stricken sleeper gasped for breath, his writhing body fairly leaped into the air, bounded on the couch and stood erect. He staggered backward and lurched toward her. The crouching figure bent low, gripping the knife and waiting for her chance to strike the last blow.
Strangling with blood, Jim opened his eyes and saw the old woman creeping nearer through the gray light of the dawn.
He threw his hands above his head and tried to shout his warning. She was on him, her trembling hand feeling for his throat, before he could speak.
Struggling, in his weakened condition, to tear her fingers away, he gasped:
“Here! Here! Great God! Do you know what you're doing?”
“I just want yer money,” she whispered. “That's all, and I'm a-goin' ter have it!”
Her fingers closed and the knife sank into his neck.
She sprang back and watched him lurch and fall across the couch. His body writhed a moment in agony and was still.
Holding the knife in her hand, she tore open the bag and thrust her itching fingers into the gold, gripping it fiercely.
“Nobody's goin' to ask ye how ye got it—they just want to know HAVE ye got it—yeah! Yeah——”