"Then, d—— you, I'll make you!" exclaimed Hall, dashing his glass to the floor, and in an instant he had a pistol pointed at the old man's head, but suddenly recovered himself and restored it to his pocket.
"Blast you!" he said, in a quiet tone, although his eyes still blazed like coals, "you would drive Job out of patience with your suspicions. Can't you see plainly that I can't get along without the information I may yet need in this matter? It's not my policy to harm you."
Picking up his glass and filling it to the brim, he continued:
"Since you will not drink your own, drink mine," and apparently exchanged glasses, but kept his own nevertheless.
Almost any third-rate juggler—any amateur with pretensions to sleight-of-hand—can perform the trick, but the old man knew nothing of juggling. He did know he was in dangerous company, and to please Hall he took the glass and drained it.
"Ugh! Lord, how bitter! Oh! oh! You devil, you're——"
"No more—no more, old man. Your time is up, although the trick came near failing."
The poor old wretch fell from the chair to the floor, striking his head against the table as he fell.
For a few moments the murderer was unnerved by his work. He sat pale and trembling in his chair, with his eyes averted from the heap on the floor, but the old man's glassy stare seemed fixed on him. He seemed to feel it. His outstretched arms seemed grasping for him.
In a little while he recovered himself, and grasping the bottle emptied it at one draught. Then he proceeded to remove all traces of his presence. The glass he had used himself he put back in the closet, and the packet from which he had taken the pinch of powder he placed in the old man's pocket.