When the man with the pistol spoke, it was in words that were illuminating. The voice was tremulous with emotion, probably nervous terror, yet the tone was intended to convey irony, and was partly successful. "I presume," it said icily, "you wished to enjoy the sensation of standing at that point--this time with the certainty of walking away alive. It must be a pleasant reminiscence, but one never can tell." The thin man paused, and then began afresh, his voice charged with a bravado that somehow seemed to lack genuineness. "Last time, you expected to be carried away dead--and went away living. This time, you expected to walk away in safety, and, instead, you've got to die. Your execution was only delayed." He gave a short, nervous laugh, then his voice came near breaking as he went on almost wildly: "I've got to kill you, Carter. God knows I don't want to do it, but I must have security! This knowledge that you are watching me to drop on me like a hawk on a rat, will drive me mad. They've told me up and down both these God-forsaken coasts, from Ancon to Buenos Ayres, from La Boca to Concepcion, that you would get me, and now it's sheer self-defense with me. I know you never forgave a wrong--and God knows that I never did you the wrong you are trying to revenge. God knows I am innocent." Rodman halted breathless, and stood with his flat chest rising and falling almost hysterically. He was in the state when men are most irresponsible and dangerous. Meanwhile, a pistol held in an unsteady hand, its trigger under an uncertain finger, emphasized a situation that called for electrical thinking. To assert a mistake in identity would be ludicrous. Saxon was not in a position to claim that. The other man seemed to have knowledge that he himself lacked. Moreover, that knowledge was the information which Saxon, as self-prosecutor, must have. The only course was to meet the other's bravado with a counter show of bravado, and keep him talking. Perhaps, some one would pass in the empty street. "Well," demanded Rodman between gasping breaths, "why in hell don't you say something?" Saxon began to feel the mastery of the stronger man over the weaker, despite the fact that the weaker supplemented his inferiority with a weapon. "It appears to me," came the answer, and it was the first time Rodman had heard the voice, now almost velvety, "it appears to me that there isn't very much for me to say. You seem to be in the best position to do the talking." "Yes, damn you!" accused the other, excitedly. "You are always the same--always making the big pyrotechnic display! You have grandstanded and posed as the debonair adventurer, until it's come to be second nature. That won't help now!" The thin man's braggadocio changed suddenly to something like a whine.