McLeod sprang to his feet, his soul chilled by the tone in which the threat was uttered. He started to call for help, and looked down the gleaming barrel of a revolver.
“Move now or open your mouth, and I kill you instantly. Sit down. I give you five minutes to write your last message to this world.”
McLeod sank into his seat trembling like a leaf, with the perspiration standing out on his forehead in cold beads. Now and then he glanced furtively at the stem face of blind fury towering over his crouching form.
Unable to endure the terrible strain, he sank to the floor whining, slobbering, begging in abject cowardice for his life. He crawled toward the Preacher, reached out his hand and touched his foot.
“My God, Doctor, you are mad. You will not commit murder. You are a minister of Jesus Christ. Have mercy. I am at your feet. Your wife is as pure as an angel. I only said what I did to torture you”—
“Get up you snake!” hissed the Preacher, stamping his body with all his might until McLeod screamed with pain and scrambled to his feet cowering and whining like a cur.
“Finish your letter. You will never leave this room alive.”
A long pitiful sob broke the stillness, and McLeod was looking into the Preacher’s face in vain for a ray of hope.