Quick as thought, I threw back the taunt.
“Lost the woman, yes, thank God; the book, never. I came for that, not for her. I demand that you turn over the copy.”
Again the cool smile and the steady voice.
“You’re a trifle late. I haven’t a sheet; it is all gone.”
“You lie!” I flung the hot words fair in his teeth.
A smile, mocking, maddening, formed upon his face.
“I told you before you had lost. The book is copyrighted”––a pause, while the smile 363 broadened––“copyrighted in my name, and sold.”
The instinct of battle, primitive, uncontrollable, came over me and the room turned dark. I fought it, until my hands grew greasy from the wounds where the nails bit my palms, then I lost control; of what follows all is confused.
I dimly see myself leaping at him like a wild animal; I feel the tightening of the big neck muscles as my fingers closed on his throat; I feel a soft breath of night air as we neared the open window; then in my hands a sudden lightness, and in my ears a cry of terror.
I awoke at a pounding on the door. It seemed hours later, though it must have been but seconds. I arose––and was alone. The window was wide open; in the street below, a crowd was gathering on the run, while a policeman’s shrill whistle rang out on the night. A hundred faces were turned toward me as I looked down and I dimly wondered thereat.