"What have you done to me, you fiend?" he jerked out in a husky, horrid voice. "Tell me, am I dying? you devil! you devil!"
"Yes, Master Anderson," I answered. "You thought to beat me, to blackmail me, to drug me, while all the time you pretended to be my friend. Well, you've lost, and before long your other muscles will fail just as your arms and legs, and motor muscles generally, have already failed. You thought to play me false, you cursed hound; and you're taking the consequences."
"Oh, God, d'Escombe," he begged, "give me a chance. I'll be your slave. I'll do anything for you, but don't let me die like this." He made a desperate effort to move, but to no purpose, only the rolling of his eyes and his deep groans told of his struggle.
"Too late now, too late," I said. "You will keep your senses for a day or two perhaps, but I must stop your talking, because I am sending for the village doctor to attend you."
The irony of the thing seemed too much for him, and he sank back in a temporary stupor, during which I attended with a second hypodermic injection to his vocal chords,
