"Monsieur," he panted, greatly agitated, "the whiskey—the thought of it again to-night—is maddening."
Carl merely raised ironical eyebrows.
"You are not a man," choked the other, shaking. "You are a nameless demon! Such hellish originality in the conception of evil, such singular indignities as you have seen fit to inflict, they are the freaks of a madman!"
"Thank you," said Carl politely. "One likes to have one's little ingenuities appreciated."
"I—I am ill—and the room is stifling."
"If I do not mind it," said Carl in aggrieved surprise, "why should you?"
"You are a thing of steel and infernal fire. I am but human."
"There is a way to stop it all," reminded Carl, lazily relighting his cigar. "Why not give me a logical reason for your presence in America?"
"I have done so. Have I not said again and again that I am Sigimund Jokai, of Vienna, touring in America?"
"You have said so," agreed Carl imperturbably, "but you lie. There was an empty chamber in your revolver, you were perilously close to my cousin's camp. Why? Is it not better to tell me than foolishly to waste such splendid nerve and grit as you possess?"