“Who put that collar on your neck!” he demanded with awful anger.
“Marster Lafitte put it on, Marster.”
“Master Lafitte? which one? That says Lafitte Brothers,” cried Harrington, pointing with outstretched arm and finger straight at the name.
“Marster Torwood Lafitte put it on, Marster,” quavered the fugitive, affrighted at Harrington’s manner.
Harrington’s outstretched arm sank slowly, and dropped by his side. A deep and burning flush mounted to his face, and clenching his hands, he thundered a tremendous oath. Such an oath as Washington swore when Lee chafed him in his legions. Such an oath as had never before passed the calm lips of Harrington, but it burst from his heart’s core.
He stood in silence for a moment, the flush dying from his face, and his anger settling down from that explosion into calm.
“Who are you? what’s your name?” he demanded.
“Antony, Marster.”
Harrington was past surprise, but his brain whirled, and blankness gathered upon it. For a minute, he stood vacantly staring at the fugitive. Then, recovering from his stupefaction, he sighed vaguely, and wiped away the perspiration from his face with the palm of his hand. Glancing presently at his watch, he saw that the five minutes had not expired, and going to a drawer, he produced a bunch of keys.
“We’ll have that collar off,” said he, approaching the fugitive.