He
rested his hands upon it, and turned his burning, vindictive eyes
upon Kerner, ignoring me.
"You are a hopeless fool," he said to the artist. "Haven't you had
enough of starvation yet? I offer you one more opportunity. Give up
this girl and come back to your home. Refuse, and you must take the
consequences."
The Fool-Killer's threatening face was within a foot of his victim's;
but to my horror, Kerner made not the slightest sign of being aware
of his presence.
"We will be married next week," he muttered absent-mindedly. "With my
studio furniture and some second-hand stuff we can make out."
"You have decided your own fate," said the Fool-Killer, in a low but
terrible voice. "You may consider yourself as one dead. You have had
your last chance."
"In the moonlight," went on Kerner, softly, "we will sit under the
skylight with our guitar and sing away the false delights of pride
and money."
"On your own head be it," hissed the Fool-Killer, and my scalp
prickled when I perceived that neither Kerner's eyes nor his ears
took the slightest cognizance of Jesse Holmes. And then I knew that
for some reason the veil had been lifted for me alone, and that I had
been elected to save my friend from destruction at the Fool-Killer's
hands. Something of the fear and wonder of it must have showed itself
in my face.
"Excuse me," said Kerner, with his wan, amiable smile; "was I talking
to myself? I think it is getting to be a habit with me.
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