Unable to endure the terrible strain, he sank to the floor whining, slobbering, begging in abject cowardice for his life. He crawled toward the Preacher, reached out his hand and touched his foot.
"My God, Doctor, you are mad. You will not commit murder. You are a minister of Jesus Christ. Have mercy. I am at your feet. Your wife is as pure as an angel. I only said what I did to torture you"—
"Get up you snake!" hissed the Preacher, stamping his body with all his might until McLeod screamed with pain and scrambled to his feet cowering and whining like a cur.
"Finish your letter. You will never leave this room alive."
A long pitiful sob broke the stillness, and McLeod was looking into the Preacher's face in vain for a ray of hope.
Suddenly Gaston burst into the room trembling with excitement. "My God, Doctor, what does this mean?" he cried seizing the revolver.
McLeod sprang toward Gaston, groaning and crawling toward his feet. "Save me Gaston,—the Doctor's gone mad—he is about to kill me!"
"Charlie, I must!" pleaded the Preacher.
"No, no, this is madness. I thank God I am in time. I missed you at the speaking, and hearing a rumour of this slander I hurried to find you. I saw your study open and read your letter. I knew I'd find you here. I'll manage McLeod."
The Preacher sat down crying. McLeod had crawled back to his desk and was mopping his face. Gaston walked over to him and said with slow trembling emphasis,
"I give you twelve hours to close this office, wind up your business, and leave. In the meantime you will write a denial of this slander satisfactory to me for
