There was a
chance even there, but you were not clever enough to take it. You're
overcautious and a coward. But how busy you must have been before
that," he purred solicitously, "bolting about in various disguises
after me. How very patient! Dear, dear, if Nature had only given you
brains enough to match your lack of scruples--"
The insolent purr of his musical voice whipped color into Kronberg's
cheeks. Abruptly he shifted his position and glared stonily.
"Venice," murmured Carl impudently, "Venice called them _bravi_;
here in America we brutally call them gun-men, but honestly, Kronberg,
in all respect and confidence, you really haven't brains and
originality enough for a clever professional murderer. Amateurish
killing is a sickly sort of sport. And the danger of it! Take for
instance that night when you fancied you were a motor bandit and
waylaid me on the way to the farm. I was very drunk and driving madly
and I nearly got you. A pretty to-do that would have been! To be
killed by an amateur and you a paid professional! My! My! Kronberg,
I blush for you. I really do!"
He rose smiling, though his eyes were dangerously brilliant.
"Just when," said he lazily, "did you steal the paper I found in the
candlestick? It's gone--"
He had struck fire from the stone man at last.
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