The question was proper enough, but the tone was a threat.
“Will you divide the estate with myself as half heir?” he asked, peering close into the invalid’s face with those wicked dark eyes. “Speak.”
“I will not,” firmly said Radcliffe, trying to rise from his seat. “You can never touch one cent of my money.”
“You lie!” savagely said Van Dorn, and with a quick motion he caught poor Radcliffe by the throat with one hand as he drew the poniard with the other. “You lie, for I intend to handle every cent of your money. I’m going to take your life for two reasons; one is because you married the only girl I ever thought a straw about, and the other reason is because you made me as black to her as a man could be made. Die!”
The poniard flashed in the light, the invalid writhed in a vain effort to get away from the ruffian’s clutch, and the blade descended and was sheathed in Radcliffe’s heart.
The murderer laid the body down, and after spurning it with his foot, picked up the lamp from the table and walked softly out of the room.
He traversed the hallway and reached the door of another room; this he entered with a cat-like tread, and set the lamp down while he turned towards the bed that stood at the side of the room.
There half reclining was a youth of about fifteen, who had been aroused from his slumbers by the light.
Van Dorn strode forward, and the bloody knife flashed before the eyes of the half awakened boy.
“Silence,” cautioned Van Dorn, with a look of menace, “for if you make any outcry, utter one sound above a whisper, I’ll not hesitate for a moment about driving this poniard into your heart!”