“With one of the oldest weapons in the world,” he answered. “A weapon which has caused the death of many a brave man—aye, braver and more powerful than Terence here.”
The waves lapped saltily against the rotting piles at the far end of the warehouse. In the darkness a rat squeaked, and the cat, interrupting its toilet, darted out of the circle of light and vanished. In the darkness was heard the sound of a speeding motor.
Captain Dolan raised his eyes from the corpse of his friend, and his voice was very soft and compassionate:
“Did I not say that Terence was his own worst enemy? Had it not been for that foolish bewitchment of his—”
He turned and pointed suddenly toward “Big Jim,” standing stupidly there in the shadows. It seemed almost that the eyes of the dead man, following the direction of his extended arm, were staring at the bestial, repulsive features of the prisoner with sentient terror.
“Look at the hairy arms of him!” he cried. “Look at the long, shaggy beard! When he stood on the platform yonder by the door and crooked his elbow about the throat of Terence, do you think the poor lad knew of the pistol stuck in his back, or the words of warning jabbered in some haythin lingo? To the mind of Terence ’twas nothing less than the coming true of all his nightmares! Small wonder that his eyes are bursting from their sockets as he lies there with the grip of terror stopping the valves of his heart and curdling the very blood in his veins!”
“Then the name of the weapon—”
“It is called Fear,” said Captain Dolan.
The throbbing motor sounded at the end of the street. With a squeal of brakes, the police car halted outside. Doctor Potts pushed through the crowd and bent briefly over the body.
“Heart failure,” he said.