“It is—it is,” hissed the other. “But, ma foi! if you think I will be trapped, you are mistaken!” he laughed harshly. “No—you, Frank Burgoyne—you English cur!—you took Vera from me. Though she is your wife, you shall no longer enjoy her beauty. Dieu! you shan’t?”
I saw him plunge his hand nervously into his pocket, but had not the slightest idea of his intention.
As I turned to look at Vera she covered her blanched face with her hands, screaming,—“Look, Frank—he has a pistol!”
His movements were of lightning-like rapidity. Before I could wrest the weapon from his murderous grasp he had levelled it at her.
There was a flash—a loud report—and a puff of smoke curled between us.
For a second I feared to glance at her, but when I lifted my eyes, it was with joy I saw that the bullet had sped harmlessly past, shattering a great mirror at the opposite end of the room.
Shrieking wildly and hysterically, she staggered fainting to a chair, while Boris and I struggled with the murderer to obtain possession of the weapon.
“Stand back!” he shouted, his dark flashing eyes starting from their sockets, and his even row of white teeth prominently displayed. “Touch me, and I’ll blow your brains out! Sacré! I warn you!”
The mad excitement seemed to have filled him with fiendish strength, and by an agile movement he again freed himself.
With a muttered oath he advanced several steps towards the spot where Vera was sitting, now rendered utterly unconscious by the sudden shock.