"Do you intend to hit me again with the sandbag?" asked the New Yorker thickly.
"No, I don't mean to take that risk again," replied the other. "Another crack like that might kill you—and I don't want to kill you just yet, unless I have to. Perhaps I won't kill you at all, my dear fellow. I may—of course; but I don't think so at the moment. I am whimsical, however—a man of quick and innumerable moods. However, I do not expect to thump you again with the sandbag. I have this rifle—for serious work—and this queer-looking little pistol for the joking. It is a chemical pistol—quite a new invention. I have tested it, and found it to be all the manufacturers claim for it. Don't move! You can see and hear perfectly well where you are! If I discharge it in your face, at a range of twenty feet, or under, it will stun you, and leave you stunned for an hour or more, without tearing the flesh or breaking any bones. The thing that hits you is gas—I forget just what kind. It is pretty potent, anyway—and I don't suppose you are particular as to what variety of gas you are shot with. It is a fine invention, and works like a charm. I am quite eager to test it again."
"Don't! Don't! Great heavens, man, have you gone mad?" cried Mr. Banks.
Old Wigmore raised the odd, sinister-looking pistol in his left hand.
"I don't think it hurts very much," he said. "Feels like being smothered, I believe. Of course the shock may be quite severe at such close range as this."
Banks closed his eyes. He was less of a coward than most men; but to sit there on the narrow stairs, chilled and helpless, and wait for the discharge of an unknown weapon in his face was more than courage and nerves could stand.
"Shoot!" he screamed. "Shoot, and be done with it!"
He cut a queer figure, humped there bulkily, in his great fur coat, with the fur cap pulled low about his ears, his eyes shut tight, and his big face colorless with fatigue and apprehension—a queer, pathetic, tragic figure. He waited for the explosion, every sense and every nerve stretched till his very skin ached. His mind was in a whirl. The thumping of his heart sounded in his ears like the roaring and pounding of surf.
"Shoot! Shoot!" he whispered, with dry lips and leathern tongue.
And still he waited—waited. At last he could bear the strain no longer. He uttered a harsh cry, stumbled to his feet, and opened his eyes, leaning one shoulder heavily against a wall of the staircase. A gasp of relief escaped him. Wigmore had retreated, and now stood several yards away from the bottom step. The muzzle of the rifle was still toward his victim, but his left hand, gripping that terrible, mysterious, little weapon, was lowered to his side. He chuckled. His face looked like that of a very old, very unhuman, and very goatish satyr.