At his words Sleeman’s face turned a sickly, greenish yellow, the pipe slipped from his fingers and fell clattering to the floor. He backed away toward the door of an inner room, opened it and with a swift leap was behind it, locked.
“Open that door,” commanded Paul. A moment he waited, then drove his heel at the lock just below the door knob. With a crash the door flew open. Within the room Sleeman was standing, a gun in his hand, hanging loose by his side.
“Keep back,” he shouted hoarsely.
“Put—that—gun—down—quick!” came from Paul in sharp, staccato tones.
“You keep out of this room,” said Sleeman, in a blustering voice that shook for all his bravado.
A movement swifter than the eye could follow, the snap of a gun, and Sleeman’s gun was flung against the wall, his fingers dripping blood.
“A mistake, Sleeman. Didn’t intend to hurt you,” said Paul quietly. “I should have warned you I am a trick hand with the gun. I tell you now. Don’t try anything on me. There are five shots left in this gun. I can shoot five fingers off you before you could draw. I should love to do it. Do you know, Sleeman,” here Paul’s voice dropped a note, “I find it hard not to kill you. I stood by my father’s grave this morning. You killed him. Don’t speak, you dog! Only God Almighty is keeping me from killing you now. Listen carefully. Do what I ask you and for God’s sake if you want to live beyond this hour, do it quick!”
Paralysed with fear, the wretched man sank into a chair and sat there, voiceless, staring at Paul, his breath choking him.
“You need a drink,” said Paul after looking at him disgustedly for a few moments. “Get it, and quick.”
Quickly, gladly, Sleeman went to a cupboard, poured himself a stiff glass of Scotch and drank it off.