sounds faint and far. You cannot see my face. And still you
struggle in my grip. You kick with your legs. Your body draws
itself up in knots like a snake's. Your chest heaves and strains.
To live! To live! To live--"

I heard no more. Consciousness was blotted out by the darkness he
had so graphically described, and when I came to myself I was lying
on the floor and he was smoking a cigar and regarding me
thoughtfully with that old familiar light of curiosity in his eyes.

"Well, have I convinced you?" he demanded. "Here take a drink of
this. I want to ask you some questions."

I rolled my head negatively on the floor. "Your arguments are too-
-er--forcible," I managed to articulate, at cost of great pain to
my aching throat.

"You'll be all right in half-an-hour," he assured me. "And I
promise I won't use any more physical demonstrations. Get up now.
You can sit on a chair."

And, toy that I was of this monster, the discussion of Omar and the
Preacher was resumed. And half the night we sat up over it.



CHAPTER XII