"No," gasped Rosenblatt in terrible fury, "what do you--"

"Look," said the man. With his free hand he swept off the black
beard which he stuffed into his pocket.

Rosenblatt looked. "Kalmar!" he gasped, terror in his eyes.

"Yes, Kalmar," replied the man.

"Help!--" The cry died at his teeth.

"No, no," said Kalmar, shutting his fingers upon his windpipe.
"No noise. We are to have a quiet moment here. They are all too busy
to notice us. Listen." He leaned far down over the ghastly face of
the wretched man beneath him. "Shall I tell you why I am here? Shall
I remind you of your crimes? No, I need not. You remember them well,
and in a few minutes you will be in hell for them. Five years I
froze and burned in Siberia, through you." As he said the word "you"
he leaned a little closer. His voice remained low and soft, but his
eyes were blazing with a light as of madness. "For this moment,"
he continued gently, "I have hungered, thirsted, panted. Now it has
come. I regret I must hurry a little. I should like to drink this
sweet cup slowly, oh so slowly, drop by drop. But--ah, do not
struggle, nor cry. It will only add to your pain. Do you see this?"
He drew from his pocket what seemed a knife handle, pressed a spring,
and from this handle there shot out a blade, long, thin, murderous
looking. "It has a sharp point, oh, a very sharp point." He pricked
Rosenblatt in the cheek, and as Rosenblatt squirmed, laughed a
laugh of singular sweetness. "With this beautiful instrument I mean
to pick out your eyes, and then I shall drive it down through your