Robert's countenance was gray-white; his white lips, parted a little, seemed to be stretched over his teeth; his eyes blazed blue fire! And behind Robert--and be it confessed that there was a certain indefinite atmosphere of fright about her--Beatrice smiled. "So you--_you_--you beastly scoundrel!" Robert began, his hands working as he looked straight at Johnson Boller and ignored the very existence of Anthony Fry. "I don't know whether a thing like you can pray, but if you can, pray quick!" "_Me?_" Johnson Boller gulped. Robert laughed dreadfully. "Don't waste your time gaping!" he said, thickly. "Pray if you want to, because you're going to die! D'ye hear? I'm going to choke out your nasty life as I'd choke the life out of a mad dog." "Not my life!" Johnson Boller protested, with pale lips, as he pointed at Anthony. "He----" "Whatever he may have had to do with luring her here I can settle with him afterward!" Robert cried. "My concern is with _you_; and if you want to say anything, hurry about it. I can't hold myself more than another second or two!" By way of proving it, he stalked down upon Johnson Boller--not rapidly, but with a deadly slowness and deliberation which suggested the tiger coming down upon its prey. His flaring eyes had fascinated the victim, too, for Johnson Boller could not move a muscle. Once he tried to smile a farewell at Beatrice; his eyes would not remain away from Robert even long enough for that. Once he tried to look at Anthony, but it was quite useless. And from that ominous region of the doorway came Wilkins's warm tones: "Well, that's all right, gentlemen, but he's busy now." "He's not too busy to see me," said an entirely strange voice, and heavy steps passed by Wilkins. Into the large room which had already seen so much suffering, the distinctly scared person of Hobart Hitchin was propelled by a large, hairy hand. The owner of the hand glanced at him for an instant; and then for five terrific seconds stared at Anthony Fry, who after the first violent start had turned immobile as Johnson Boller himself. "Mr.--what's your name?--Hitchin!" Dalton barked. Hobart Hitchin straightened up with an effort. "Fry," said he, "we--er--that is, I accuse you of the--ah--murder of Theodore Dalton's only son, Richard, alias David Prentiss!" CHAPTER XVI The Lie Even Robert Vining halted his death march. A man of but one idea in the world just a second ago, he jerked about suddenly and cried: "_Dick?_" Dalton a strong man half-benumbed by mental agony, turned slowly upon him. "Are you--here, too, Robert?" he muttered. "Yes, Dicky!" And slowly he turned back to Anthony and, slowly also, he drew forth the automatic in all its steely-blue nastiness. "Well, Fry?"