Nights of enforced
drunkenness had left his nerves strained to the breaking point.
"Monsieur," he panted, greatly agitated, "the whiskey--the thought of
it again to-night--is maddening."
Carl merely raised ironical eyebrows.
"You are not a man," choked the other, shaking. "You are a nameless
demon! Such hellish originality in the conception of evil, such
singular indignities as you have seen fit to inflict, they are the
freaks of a madman!"
"Thank you," said Carl politely. "One likes to have one's little
ingenuities appreciated."
"I--I am ill--and the room is stifling."
"If I do not mind it," said Carl in aggrieved surprise, "why should
you?"
"You are a thing of steel and infernal fire. I am but human."
"There is a way to stop it all," reminded Carl, lazily relighting his
cigar. "Why not give me a logical reason for your presence in America?"
"I have done so. Have I not said again and again that I am Sigimund
Jokai, of Vienna, touring in America?"
"You have said so," agreed Carl imperturbably, "but you lie. There was
an empty chamber in your revolver, you were perilously close to my
cousin's camp. Why? Is it not better to tell me than foolishly to
waste such splendid nerve and grit as you possess?"
The prisoner moistened his bloodless lips and shrugged.
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