You 'll
live longer, all of you."
"An idiot," Elizabeth remarked pleasantly, "can do but little
harm in the world. The word of a person of weak intellect is not
to be relied upon. For my part, I am very tired of our friend,
Mr. Pritchard. If you others had been disposed to go to much
greater lengths, if you had said 'Hang him from the ceiling,' I
should have been well pleased."
Pritchard made a slight movement in his chair--it was certainly
not a movement of fear.
"Madam," he said, "I admire your candor. Let me return it. I
don't believe there's one of you here has the pluck to attempt to
do me any serious injury. If there is, get on with it. You
hear, Mr. Walter Crease? Bring out that bottle of yours."
Crease removed his cigar from his lips and rose slowly to his
feet. From his waistcoat pocket he produced a small phial, from
which he drew the cork.
"Seems to me it's up to us to do the trick," he remarked
languidly. "Catch hold of his forehead, Jimmy."
The man known as Major Post threw away his cigarette, and coming
round behind Pritchard's chair, suddenly bent the man's head
backward. Crease advanced, phial in hand. Then all Hell seemed
to be let loose in Tavernake. He stepped back in his place and
marked the extent of that wooden partition. Then, setting his
teeth, he sprang at it, throwing the great weight of his massive
shoulder against the framework door. Scratched and bleeding, but
still upon his feet, he burst into the room, with the noise of
bricks falling behind,--an apparition so unexpected that the
little company gathered there seemed turned into some waxwork
group from the Chamber of Horrors--motionless, without even the
power of movement.
Pages:
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212