The instrument
struck a button on Robert's coat and fell to the floor, where it lay
twisted out of shape by the force of the impact.
It was a hypodermic syringe.
Again Ooma uttered that weird cry.
"This is the end," he said. "You have not beaten me. It is Fate."
He folded his arms and looked at them. A change came over his face. He was
no longer a tiger at bay, but a human being, calm, dignified, almost
impressive.
"I arrest you--" began Winter.
"You fool!" laughed the Japanese, with a quiet contempt in his tone; "I
shall be dead in twenty minutes. That syringe contained snake poison, the
undiluted venom of the karait. Put away your pistols. They are not
wanted."
Quite nonchalantly he leaned back against the bookcase that lined the
wall. He turned his eyes to Robert.
"You have the luck of your race," he said "If that point had reached your
skin no human skill could have saved you. As it is, you are spared, and I
must go. The same blood flows in our veins, yet you are my enemy. I wish I
could once get my fingers round your throat before my strength fails."
"Come from behind that table and try," was the quick rejoinder.
Ooma made to accept the challenge, but Brett intervened.
"If you are telling the truth," he said, "you can spend your brief
remaining span of life to better purpose than in a mad combat with one who
has done you no harm.
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