'Got you, you thief!' I looked round the carriage. I saw that the others were on his side. They all had lost, you see. I replied, 'Release my wrist.' 'Not,' he said, 'till you show me that card!' 'Take it!' I cried, and flung it in his face. I have not so sweet a temper as you, my friend. As I flung the card into his face, with my other hand I drew a revolver, which it was my custom to carry, so that any little difficulties which might arise might be settled without any unnecessary delay. I fired at John Osborn. Someone struck up my wrist. I missed. I fired again. That time the shot went home. It burst his eye. I flattered myself that it had entered into what he called his brain. He gave just one gasp, and dropped. I fancy that I hear him gasping now. It seemed as though the passage of his throat was choked with blood. There was a fight They all went for me. I emptied my revolver. And then—then I was done."
He paused and smiled. I was cowering at the other end of the carriage—close to the spot on which, according to his account, this hideous tragedy had happened. And the chief actor was standing there in front of me, bringing back the scene, so that it all seemed to be happening before my very eyes. A wild desire flashed across my mind that an accident would happen, that the train would go off the line, so that in some way I might escape this man.
"See here." He was holding the pack of cards. He advanced towards me with them in his hand. I would have opened the door of the carriage and got out upon the footboard, if I had dared to turn.
