“And ’oo’re you to give us orders?—you ’oo talked so big about ’avin’ tied the ’ands of the Lone Wolf and Scotland Yard! You blarsted blow’ard! Bli’me if I don’t believe it’s you ’oo—”
“Quietly, Seven! Have you forgotten you have a bad heart?—that excitement may mean your sudden death?”
The rage of the Englishman ran out in a gasp and a whisper.
“In the meantime,” Number One resumed as if there had been no break, “I promised that, before the night was out, you should have proof of my ability to enforce my will.”
A groan of agony answered him, followed by an oath of witless fear. From a distance the voice, now thin but still sonorous, added:
“Thirteen will hold himself ready to wait on me when I send for him to-morrow. Gentlemen of the Council, I bow to you all.”
Again silence held for a long minute during which no man stirred or spoke. Then overhead the lamp burned bright again, discovering six frightened men upon their feet and one who, still seated, did not stir, and never would again.
His head fallen forward, chin resting on his chest, mouth ajar, inert arms dangling over the arms of the chair, heavy legs lax, the Englishman sat quite dead, dead without a sign to show how death had come to him.
Number One had disappeared.
There was a remote rumour of cries and shouts, the muffled sound of axes crashing into woodwork....