But, though
disarmed, he was still dangerous. With a horrible silent energy he
pushed Haw back and back until, coming to a bench, they both fell over
it, McIntyre remaining uppermost. His other hand was on the alchemist's
throat, and it might have fared ill with him had Robert not climbed
through the window and dragged his father off from him. With the aid of
Haw, he pinned the old man down, and passed a long cravat around his
arms. It was terrible to look at him, for his face was convulsed, his
eyes bulging from his head, and his lips white with foam.
Haw leaned against the glass table panting, with his hand to his side.
"You here, Robert?" he gasped. "Is it not horrible? How did you come?"
"I followed him. I heard him go out."
"He would have robbed me. And he would have murdered me. But he is
mad--stark, staring mad!"
There could be no doubt of it. Old McIntyre was sitting up now, and
burst suddenly into a hoarse peal of laughter, rocking himself backwards
and forwards, and looking up at them with little twinkling, cunning
eyes. It was clear to both of them that his mind, weakened by long
brooding over the one idea, had now at last become that of a monomaniac.
His horrid causeless mirth was more terrible even than his fury.
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