“Quick!” he exclaimed hoarsely. “He—the Bodymaster—is after me! Get me to the police station. I must—Oh, my God! I must tell my story before he seizes me again!”
He managed to open the door and stumble into the machine. The driver turned to him.
“All right, old man,” he said in the soothing tone that one uses in addressing a lunatic. “We’ll get you there in a jiffy. Are you from the big house up yonder?” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the sanitarium.
An involuntary shudder ran through the young man. His eyes dilated. He shrank away from the motorist.
“My God! Not there! Not there again!” he implored. “Please don’t take me back to that den! You think that I’m a madman. I can see that you do. I’m sane—as sane as you. But heavens knows why—after the hell I’ve been through!”
He turned to the driver and grasped him by the arm.
“Give her the gas!” he exclaimed. “Can’t you see that I’m doomed? But no. You know nothing of the Bodymaster and the strange hold he has over his subjects. He is after me—he, the Bodymaster! It is to save others from the same fate that I must tell what I know!”
With a sudden bound he leaped forward, his eyes wild, his hair in a tousled mass, his hands stretched out, the fingers clawing wildly, his whole body quivering. Then he dropped to the floor of the machine as if hurled by unseen hands.
“He is here! The Bodymaster is here!” he shrieked. “Drive—for the love of God, dr——”
The words ended in a dull, throaty gurgle as he writhed upon the floor of the machine at the other’s feet. The driver, bewildered by the strange scene, threw in the clutch, and the machine dashed madly down the pavement.