His very lips grew livid, the eyes he turned on me were those of a madman, and, snarling like a wolf, he screamed: “See what you have done! Look at my nails!” and thrust his pallid fingers forward for my inspection.
On the polished, snowy surface of every nail was a bright pink fleck or spot of about the bigness and shape of a ladybug; but I was barely conscious of these rosy marks on the intense whiteness of the uncanny things, for I suppose the smart rap of that pistol bullet and this man’s extraordinary sayings and doings had upset my fairly choleric temper, and I was literally beside myself with uncontrollable rage and indignation.
“Damn you and your dead nails!” I shouted back at him. “You cowardly liar and thief, you are Johnstone’s accomplice, and I will tear the truth out of you if I have to kill you to do it.”
We were glaring at each other like wild beasts, and, before the words were fairly out of my mouth, we sprang forward, our hands clutching hungrily at each other’s throats in the fierce desire to strangle which comes to men and the other brutes that slay when anger and hate have reached the last and deadly stage. An undercut would have driven him back, but I wanted his windpipe and he wanted mine, and each of us was sick to have the other at close quarters, so a blow would not have been fair play. We were well matched. I was sure of that as we grappled. We swayed and strained, and I could feel the blood running down my face when my wound reopened; but the end came quickly, and, as we crashed to the floor, he was underneath, and my hands flew up eagerly and clenched under his chin. Ah! the savage joy of it!
But why did he not struggle? What trick was this? Good God, had the fall killed him? How white he was! And he had been crimson a second ago. The revulsion of feeling turned me sick. Was I a murderer? I let go my hold, leaped to my feet and threw a pitcher of ice water on his head and face. He gasped, opened his eyes and regarded me calmly and quietly. Was it only a moment ago that those calm, sad eyes had been narrow rims of blue around intensely black, distended pupils that had in them the dull red glare of blood-lust? Now they were soft and human, and the light of sanity was in them.
“My friend,” he said gently—what a superb voice he had, and how the deep, rich, mellow tones brushed away anger, hatred and fear—“my friend, I owe you my life twice. First, you saved it; now, you spare it. And I owe you more than life. I owe you my restoration to reason, to perfect sanity. For I have been bitten by a mania so wild, so strange, so improbable that no man save you who have seen it would believe in its existence. ‘Like cures like.’ It came through a fall and a shock. It has been cured through a fall and a shock. You were right. I was a liar. The greatest on earth, I believe, and I gloried in it, and hated to tell a truth lest it should bring a pink spot on my nails. No, don’t lift me up.”
I had attempted to raise him and had blurted out a word or two of shame, sympathy and pity.
“I prefer to lie here while I tell you the story,” he went on. “You have no cause to be ashamed; it was simple self-defense on your part, for I should probably have killed you in my paroxysm. Besides, you do not realize what you have done for me. But I thank you for your kindly sympathy; it is not wasted, believe me. Now, if you will do me a favor, watch my nails, and, if they become normal, tell me. But, first, put one of those wet compresses on your wound and slip the bandage over it. You will forgive me by and bye for fighting with a guest to whom I owed so much. I was not responsible.”
I hastened to reassure him, and he resumed:
“Before I begin my own weird tale, let me relieve your mind about that poor, wronged, sensitive child, Mrs. Abbott. I will go back with you to Laneville, and we will break that will wide open. There will be no trouble about it. Johnstone is a whelp, his wife is a criminal, and I can put them both behind the bars. That little woman shall be righted, if it takes my entire fortune to do it. Now, listen. A trifle over a year ago, getting out of my phaeton, I fell, struck my head and was out of my mind for some weeks. When I regained health and strength I found that my injury had left me with the most unthinkable hallucination that ever crept into a human brain. Subconsciously, I knew it was a vicious delusion, but I took the same delight in it that a patient partly in the control of delirium sometimes takes in the absurdities he utters.