She sat down opposite the man and tried to eat. It required every atom of will power to induce her throat muscles to permit her to swallow. Dan Slike watched her with savage satisfaction. He found the situation intensely amusing. To murder her uncle and later eat a meal with the niece. What a joke!
"I haven't forgotten about that bottle," he remarked suddenly, pushing back his chair. "You thought it had slipped my mind, I guess, didn't you? I always have a drink after meals, or my victuals don't set good."
Without a word she went to the cupboard and brought back a bottle of whisky. He took it from her and held it up against the lamplight.
"This is only half full," he said severely. "You got another round somewhere?"
It was fright and not the lie that made her stammer. "Nun-no."
Oddly enough, he saw fit to believe her. Perhaps it was because he had just eaten and was at bodily ease with the world. She stood before him, arms limp, eyes on the floor. He drew the cork from the bottle and took a long pull.
"Good whisky," he vouchsafed between the third and fourth drags. "I'll take what's left with me—if you don't mind."
He was going then! Her poor terrified heart beat with a trifle more spirit. She looked up. Their eyes met.
"Don't look so happy!" he snarled. "Maybe I'll take you with me!"
He eyed her discomfiture with a sinister look. He uttered a short bark of a laugh. "Dontcha fret. I ain't got time to fuss with any female. Not that I would, even if I had time, so don't go flatterin' yourself any. Women ain't in my line. You're all a squalling bunch of Gawd's mistakes, every last one of you, and you can stick a pin in that. Women? Phutt!"