"Your moment for contemplation is up. Will you dig the grave here and now as I command you, or will you prefer that the next passer-by should find you on this spot with a bullet hole through your head?"
Even through the semi-darkness old Adam could see the stranger's eyes gleaming pitilessly upon him as he uttered the words, and he realized that if he refused he might expect no mercy at this man's hands.
"Your answer!" said Halloran, pressing the messenger of death still closer to the throbbing brow of the now thoroughly terrified old grave digger.
"Y—es," stammered old Adam.
"That is well," declared Halloran, removing the weapon. "Begin right here by the roadside. This is as good a spot as any. You need not make it the regulation depth—three feet or such a matter will answer. Begin without delay. I will also add that not only will you save your own neck, but you shall earn a comfortable fee if you work quickly. Mind, every minute counts."
The old grave digger slowly took his spade from his shoulder, and by the light from the carriage lamp began his work on the spot pointed out, while Halloran stood by watching him with keen interest.
Old Adam was used to work in the terrible heat of summer and in the bitter cold of the winter. He set to work with a will, and the frozen ground yielded quickly to the strokes of his trusty spade, and surely the faint moon, glimmering from between the drifting clouds sweeping across the dark face of the black heavens overhead, never looked upon a wilder, more weird scene.
Twice old Adam paused, the perspiration pouring down his face like rain.
He was about to cry out: "I cannot go on with this uncanny work," but each time the cold steel of the revolver was pressed to his throbbing brow, and the harsh voice of the muffled stranger said: "Go on; your work is almost accomplished."