You cur! You contemptible cur! Abel Morris was speaking.
Ambrose immediately surrendered all ambition to live. It was apparently the culmination of his trial by fire on the Pacific Coast that Abel Morris should go mad in his presence and attempt to shoot him.
Well, snarled his persecutor, still levelling the fatal weapon, why don't you say something?
Ambrose, too, wondered why he could say nothing.
I'm going to shoot you dead, the millionaire manufacturer continued to shout, unless you promise to marry my daughter.
Ambrose sank to his knees, unable to understand why no one seemed to hear Morris's bellowing. Speech of the right sort, he was aware, might soothe the madman, but Ambrose's vocal chords were paralyzed and no succour seemed imminent. Submission to the bullet was apparently foreordained.
I'll give you five minutes to make up your mind, the maniac went on, his voice trembling with emotion. Removing his watch from his waistcoat pocket, he placed it on a table where he could easily refer to it.
