It was a hypodermic syringe.
Again Ooma uttered that weird cry.
“This is the end,” he said. “You have not beaten me. It is Fate.”
He folded his arms and looked at them. A change came over his face. He was no longer a tiger at bay, but a human being, calm, dignified, almost impressive.
“I arrest you—” began Winter.
“You fool!” laughed the Japanese, with a quiet contempt in his tone; “I shall be dead in twenty minutes. That syringe contained snake poison, the undiluted venom of the karait. Put away your pistols. They are not wanted.”
Quite nonchalantly he leaned back against the bookcase that lined the wall. He turned his eyes to Robert.
“You have the luck of your race,” he said “If that point had reached your skin no human skill could have saved you. As it is, you are spared, and I must go. The same blood flows in our veins, yet you are my enemy. I wish I could once get my fingers round your throat before my strength fails.”
“Come from behind that table and try,” was the quick rejoinder.
Ooma made to accept the challenge, but Brett intervened.