little sound. “I know a friend that’s here, a-waiting to see you; a good friend—ain’t you glad he’s still here, eh?” There was some deadly meaning to the words. Collins saw the garotter shrivel beneath them. Then the man was staring at him. John Collins stared back, as it was his habit to do. The eyes met; John Collins felt the gray ones, round, almost lidless, boring into him without emotion, without trace of human feeling; he struggled; in spite of himself he felt the defiant challenge flicker in his own, flicker, almost go out; he threw back his head—then the other had pivoted on his heels and, cutting the air in a whistling stroke of his rattan cane, had passed into the turnkey’s office.
The garotter muttered an oath and slowly raised his white face. “Who is that?” asked John Collins.
“Jennings—one of the jute-mill guards,” answered the thug; “look out fer him.” He spoke almost in a whisper and lapsed silent at once.
The sheriff and his deputies were leaving. The sheriff shook hands with the murderer and the
