them. As he listened, Mr. Howitt became livid. He was, apparently, becoming imbecile with terror.
His aforetime partner, turning to him, pointed to the box with outstretched hand.
"What a row it makes! What a rage it's in! Your death screams out to you, with a ravening longing—the most awful death that a man can die. Andrew—to die ! And such a death as this!"
Again he struck the box. Again there came from it that dreadful discord.
"Stand up!"
Mr. Howitt looked at him, as a drivelling idiot might look at a keeper whom he fears. It seemed as if he made an effort to frame his lips for the utterance of speech. But he had lost die control of his muscles. With every fibre of his being he seemed to make a dumb appeal for mercy to the man in front of him. The appeal was made in vain. The command was repeated.
"Get off your chair, and stand upon the floor."
Like some trembling automaton Mr. Howitt did as he was told. He stood there like some lunatic deaf mute. It seemed as if he could not move, save at the bidding of his master. That master was careful not to loosen, by so much as a hair's-breadth, the hold he had of him.
"I now proceed to put into execution the most exquisite part of my whole scheme. Were I to unfasten the box and let death loose upon you, some time or other it might come out—these things do come out at times—and it might then appear that the deed had, after all, been mine. I would avoid such risks. So you shall be your own slayer, Andrew.
