"Oh, I must be dreaming!" thought Clifford. But the painful grasp on his shoulder was good proof he was doing nothing of the sort.
"Nice and young and tender!" said the brute, licking his leathery lips. He let go of Clifford's shoulder, and suddenly produced from his pocket an ordinary table knife. Clifford saw with a shudder that its blade had been ground to razor-like keenness.
The man ran a finger along the sharp edge—ran it so carelessly that the thin steel ripped the skin, and blood dropped to the grass.
At the sight of the blood his dull face turned to a mask of fury, and he sprang to his feet with a howl resembling that of a wild beast hungry for its food.
The movement broke the spell. Clifford bounded to his feet, and, ducking just in time to escape a vicious stab, ran for dear life toward the house.
With a scream of balked fury the man was after him.
Bruised and shaken as he was, Clifford had never in his life before run so fast. At first he gained a little, but presently the long legs of his pursuer began to tell, and he heard the hot panting so close behind that each moment he expected to feel the sharp steel buried in his back.
The path ran right up under the blank windows of the silent house. Reaching the angle, Clifford swerved wildly to the right. A figure was standing by the door.
With a wild yell of "Help!" Clifford dashed toward it.
To his horror it vanished, slamming the door in his face.