Otherwise it was the face of a chalk man,
white and dead, with all the semblance of the living human drawn out of
it. Between his teeth he held my clasp knife, which he must have taken
from me in my sleep, and with a flash I recalled his anxiety to know
exactly which pocket it was in.
"Drop that knife!" I shouted at him, "and drop after it yourself--"
"Don't you dare to stop me!" he hissed, the breath coming between his
lips across the knife that he held in his teeth. "Nothing in the world
can stop me now--I have promised--and I must do it. I can't hold out any
longer."
"Then drop the knife and I'll help you," I shouted back in his face. "I
promise--"
"No use," he cried, laughing a little, "I must do it and you can't stop
me."
I heard a sound of laughter, too, somewhere in the air behind me. The
next second Shorthouse came at me with a single bound.
To this day I cannot quite tell how it happened. It is still a wild
confusion and a fever of horror in my mind, but from somewhere I drew
more than my usual allowance of strength, and before he could well have
realised what I meant to do, I had his throat between my fingers.
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