But Marston, his face gray, his hand hidden in his pocket, shrugged, sneered wryly, his hand thrust out and upward with the speed of light.
But, for the difference between time and eternity, he was not quick enough. There came a double report, roaring almost as one: Marston’s sneer blurred to a stiff, frozen grimace; he swayed, leaning forward, his face abruptly blank; then, in a slumping fall, he crashed downward to the floor.
Quarrier stooped, swept up the papers where they had fallen from the dead man’s pocket; then he turned curtly upon his body-servant.
“You may go, Harrison,” he said, as if dismissing the man casually at the end of his day’s service.
But if Harrison felt any gratitude for the implied reprieve, he turned now to Quarrier with an eager gesture, his speech broken, agonized:
“He—you must listen, sir—Mr. Quarrier,” he begged. “He—Mr. Marston—he knew me when—he knew about....”
His voice broke, faltered.
“Well—?” asked Quarrier, coldly, his face expressionless.
“Mr. Marston,” continued the man—“he knew—my record—I was afraid to tell you, sir. He—he found out, somehow, that I’d—been—done time, sir.... He scared me, I’ll admit—he threatened me—threatened to tell you.... You didn’t know, of course....”
“Yes—I knew,” explained Quarrier, simply, and at the expression in his master’s face the valet’s own glowed suddenly as if lighted from within.