The short man smiled--not pleasantly.
"Leave to me, my friend, that sacred duty--the sacred duty of being executioner. I have long had a little grudge of my own against Mr. Cecil Buxton. I have one of those little insults to wipe out which can only be wiped out by--blood. I have not doubted all the time that this is Mr. Cecil Buxton. I doubt it still less now that I have seen him write."
"I swear to you----"
The big man cut Hubert uncivilly short. He repeated his command. "Sign it--'Cecil Buxton.'"
Hubert looked from one face to the other. He was conscious--painfully conscious!--that his was not a pleasant situation. He saw murder on the short man's face. He did not like the look of his revolver. He held it far too carelessly. That he was the sort of man who would entertain no kind of conscientious scruple against shooting him, to use his own words, like a dog, he felt quite certain.
"Let me say one word?" he pleaded.
The big man refused him even that grace. "Not one!"
While Hubert hesitated, the pen between his fingers, there came a rapping at the door.