A second, two seconds. . . .
Was he hesitating? Was he once more going to spare his adversary?
And Lupin, in the great silence, said:
"But strike! Why don't you strike?"
A yell of rage. . . . The arm fell as though moved by a spring.
Then came a moan.
Lupin had caught the arm in mid-air at the level of the wrist. . . . And, leaping out of bed, tremendous, irresistible, he clutched the man by the throat and threw him.
That was all. There was no struggle. There was no possibility even of a struggle. The man lay on the floor, nailed, pinned by two steel rivets, which were Lupin's hands. And there was not a man in the world strong enough to release himself from that grip.
And not a word. Lupin uttered none of those phrases in which his mocking humor usually delighted. He had no inclination to speak. The moment was too solemn.