Joslyn stopped and stared in bewilderment, glaring at the uncanny scene.
Wizard Hermann, peering up at him in consternation, whimpered like a beaten hound:
“I didn’t mean to hit so hard. He—he—was too easy to kill! If they find me here they’ll hang me for murder! Save me! save me! Joslyn!”
The hideous servitor, conscious of but one thing—his master’s peril—was quick to hear and heed.
At any moment some one might come in at the open door, and one glance meant detection of the hideous crime his master had wrought.
Joslyn looked stupid, but his master knew it was only in looks. His brain was keen and alert, as he had proved many a time before.
Just one moment he paused, hesitated; then his dull eyes gleamed beneath the bushy brows, and he was prepared for action.
They were just in front of the library door, and, swooping down like an eagle on his prey, he caught up Chester Olyphant’s limp body in his long, wiry arms, and dragged him inside the room. Hermann staggered after him with quaking limbs and a ghastly face; then Joslyn softly shut and locked the door.
The two old men, who had grown gray in each other’s confidence and service—grim old men, who had outgrown pity or interest in youth and love and all that was sweetest in the world, now stood face to face, and between them, on the floor, that limp body that, now cold and senseless, had been but a little while ago a picture of manly strength and splendor, with a heart throbbing fast with the passion of youth.
“Who saw you do it?” Joslyn demanded, gruffly.