“There would be no red hand, no bloodshed, no sound,” Graff retorted. “It makes no noise, discharges no bullet. But the effect is no less deadly. I could leave you here as if you had fallen lifeless from your chair, or as if—perdition! Are you still doubtful? You shall see.”
There was something even more terrible in the aspect of this man at that moment than in his threatening words. He swung around quickly and quietly opened the door. The black cat he had seen in the hall still was there. He stepped out and seized the animal, then returned and tossed him to a corner of the room, closing the door.
The black cat was gazing with dilated yellow eyes at the lowering chemist, as if surprised at such extraordinary treatment.
“Watch!” Graff snapped fiercely, with one swift glance at his horrified companion.
He extended his right hand and the strange weapon. His piercing gaze leaped over the glistening barrel. His finger pressed the round button in the cylinder. There was a quick, explosive puff, yet hardly audible, but the black cat dropped in a crumpled heap, with his yellow eyes gone dim and glassy. The animal was dead, as crimp and shriveled as if the hot breath of a withering blight had passed over him.
Dorson caught his breath convulsively and tried to speak, but his voice seemed to die in his throat.
Professor Graff kicked the lifeless cat farther into the corner, then sat down directly opposite his ghastly companion, as unconcerned as if nothing had transpired. He replaced the mysterious weapon in his pocket, saying coldly, yet pointedly:
“It is a very handy thing to have when circumstances make it necessary.”
“It is devilish!” Dorson found his voice, shuddering, and wiped the sweat from his brow. “It is fiendish!”
“But convincing?” queried Graff, with searching scrutiny.