The terrible fear of arrest expressed and displayed by Nick, even more than his feigned voice of the gamester and the latter’s almost habitual attire, suddenly suggested to Royal the possible identity of his disguised visitor.
“Good heavens!” he exclaimed under his breath. “Is it you, Mose Flood?”
“You’d not ask that question were I to doff this disguise,” replied Nick, with bitter asperity. “Have you locked the door? Don’t open it, then, for man or devil, without first giving me time to hide. I am wanted for murder! Do you hear? I am wanted for murder!”
With a mighty effort Royal had pulled himself together, yet his hueless cheeks and dilated eyes, burning as if with fever, betrayed his consternation and dismay. He tottered to a chair near the table and sank into it as if his limbs refused longer to support him.
“Good God, Mose, what brings you here?” he hoarsely demanded.
“I’ll soon tell you, have no doubt of that,” rejoined Nick, with threatening significance.
While he spoke he drew a chair to the opposite side of the table, so placing it that the light from the window should not fall upon his face and possibly reveal his deception.
Then he sat down, fixed his frowning eyes upon the face of the cringing young man opposite, and said sternly, still cleverly imitating Flood’s resonant voice:
“Well, what have you done with it?”
Royal caught his breath, gripped hard at the arms of his chair for a moment, then answered, in tones of intense amazement: