"Something like that."
"Suppose Narcone—er—resists?"
Donnelly shrugged, "We can't very well kill him, That's what makes it hard. I knew you had as much at stake as I, so I felt sure you'd help."
Blake heard himself assuring the officer that he had not been mistaken, but it was not his own voice that reached his ears, and when his caller had gone he found himself sitting limply in his chair, numb with horror at his own temerity.
As he looked back upon it, blaming himself for his too ready agreement, he realized that several mingling emotions had been at the root of it. In the first place, he had said "yes" because his craven spirit had screamed "no" so loudly. He felt that the project was not only dangerous, but impracticable, yet something, which he chose to term his over-will, had warned him that he must not upon any account give way to fear lest he weaken his already insecure hold upon himself. Again, Donnelly had appealed to him in a way hard to resist. He was not only flattered by the Chief's high regard for his courage, but grateful to him for having relieved him of the notoriety and possible consequences of a public proceeding. Most of all, perhaps, his final acquiescence had been an instinctive reaction of rage and disgust at the part of his nature that he hated. He struck at it as a man strikes at a snake.
But now that he was irrevocably pledged, his reason broke and fled, leaving him a prey to his imagination.
What, he wondered, would Narcone do when he saw his life at stake—when he recognized in one of his captors the man he had craved to kill in the forest of Terranova? There would in all probability be a physical struggle—perhaps he would find his own flabby muscles pitted against the mighty thews of the Sicilian butcher. At the thought he felt again the melting horror which had weakened him on that unspeakable night when Narcone had turned from wiping the warm blood from his hands to glare into his face. Blake feared that the memories would return to betray him at the last moment. That would mean that he would be left naked of the reputation he had guarded so jealously—and a far worse calamity—that his rebellious nature would finally triumph. One defeat, he knew, implied total overthrow.
He tried to reason that he was magnifying the danger—that Narcone would be easily handled, that other criminals as desperate had been taken without a struggle, but the instant such grains of comfort touched the healed terrors in his mind they vanished like drops of water sprinkled upon an incandescent furnace.
Nevertheless, he was pledged, and he knew that he would go.
He had barely gotten himself under a semblance of control, two days later, when Donnelly called him up by telephone to advise him in cautious terms that affairs were nearing a climax and to warn him to make ready.