Conward leered only the more offensively, and walked down the stairs beside him. At the foot he coolly lit another cigarette. If he was conscious of the hate in Dave's eyes he hid his emotions under a mask of insolence. He held the match before him and calmly watched it burn out. Then he extended it toward Dave.
"You remember our wager, Elden. I present you with—a burnt-out match."
"You liar!" cried Dave. "You infamous liar!"
"Ask her," Conward replied. "She will deny it, of course. All women do."
Dave felt his muscles tighten, and knew that in a moment he would tear his victim to pieces. As his clenched fist came to the side of his body it struck something hard. His revolver! He had forgotten; he was not in the habit of carrying it. In an instant he had Conward covered.
Dave did not press the trigger at once. He took a fierce delight in torturing the man who had wrecked his life,—even while he told himself he could not believe his boast. Now he watched the colour fade from Conward's cheek; the eyes stand out in his face; the livid blotches more livid still; the cigarette drop from his nerveless lips.
"You are a brave man, Conward," he said, and there was the rasp of hate and contempt in his voice. "You are a very brave man."
Mrs. Hardy, sensing something wrong, came out from her sitting-room. With a little cry she swooned away.
Conward tried to speak, but words stuck in his throat. With a dry tongue he licked his drier lips.
"Do you believe in hell, Conward?" Dave continued. "I've always had some doubt myself, but in thirty seconds—you'll know."