the eyes of jean petit, like those of a glittering tiger cat, peered intently through a crack in the slabs of holterman’s wine-room.

the escapee saw in the twilight a stout figure mounted upon an empty soap-box.

this figure held in one hand a jug. as the hand moved in response to the man’s words, a dark liquid, looking like blood, splashed from the jug. it was the blood of holterman’s vines.

holterman was holding forth to an imaginary audience on the corrupt state of the government.

the speech was given in english and german. a marvellous speech, full of strange thoughts, but lost for lack of an audience.

excepting an opossum, which came down the chimney, and sat gravely on the kitchen mantlepiece, opposite the wine-room door each evening, hans the orator was usually without listeners.

while he babbled, jean petit—eye and ear alternately to the crack in the slabs—listened attentively. it was weeks since he had heard the speech of man,[123] and the sounds seemed to throw him into a grim reverie.

the speech within the hut was strangely like the last talk of the men who had been with him in the boat.

petit, wise in experience, smiled fiendishly as he realised how matters stood with the man inside. the lower stars began to appear like live diamonds set in the dark leaves of the gums. the skeletons of ring-barked trees stood up in spectral silence against a background of darkened sky.

hans talked on and on. much of his madness was about his treasure, the money he had hidden in the tea tin in the kitchen chimney.

at last petit drew his knife from its sheath, and looked at the edge in the starlight. then he slipped off his shoes and began to creep stealthily round to the kitchen door. when the man in the wine-room stopped to take breath or to refresh himself, petit would stop also, his eye to a crack in the wall. his breath came and went noiselessly like an animal of the bush. he created no more disturbance than a panther creeping through the forest on the trail of a prey.

the door creaked a little, but holterman took no notice. a dark figure skulked across the doorway, and, hidden in the cover of the wall, moved towards the open fireplace. but holterman observed it not.

the shadow of the escapee drifted darkly across the uneven floor. once, through an opening in the slabs, the light of a star flashed brightly for a second upon a naked blade, as if a fire-fly had gone by.

the hand of the prowler went up, and began to feel[124] upon the adzed-slab which formed the chimney shelf.

it crept along inch by inch until suddenly it encountered fur and claws.

the ’possum jumped frantically from the shelf. jean petit, taken by surprise, swore aloud as the tea tin fell upon the floor with a clattering noise, and the german leaped from the soap-box into the middle of the kitchen floor.

hans was a powerful man, and the madness which worked in him with the wine gave him additional strength. he clutched the invader by the throat with both hands. petit was thrown backwards upon the floor, partially stunned. but the next moment, feeling the tightening grip of strong hands on his neck, his strength and savagery came back to him in a wild, combative rush. the knife had fallen from his grasp. he put out his hands instinctively, and grasped his opponent also by the throat.

he stuck his knees into the german’s ribs and squeezed with all the strength of his lower limbs, at the same time using the power of his backbone and thighs in an endeavour to turn over upon his adversary.

they writhed and struggled like pythons close-locked in a combat to the death.

it was a question merely of time and endurance—one maniac against another; fighting to kill in silence—a duel with the hands.

which would be choked first?

jean petit’s fingers were embedded in the german’s neck like talons.

the death of the german.

tom pagdin, pirate. page 124.

[125]

holterman’s hands clasped petit’s throat like a compressing band of steel.

the frenchman gasped. he had not the staying powers of the teuton. in a few seconds more he would be overcome. they had overturned a stool in the struggle. the legs were broken out, and rolled under holterman’s elbow as they fought. holterman, feeling the resistance of his foe lessening, and being not too clear of thought, released his hold and picked up one of these to beat out the other’s brains.

but before he could deal the blow, petit was on his feet again, knife in hand.

as the german lifted his arm to strike, the blade went home to the hilt in his neck.

he fell like a beast at the stroke of an axe, and with a horrid growl of satisfaction petit finished the business by cutting his victim’s throat.

there was silence.… presently the murderer crept to the door and looked out cautiously.

he heard no sound except the night noises of the bush, and already the escapee was familiar with many of these.

he found water for his hands—and the knife. upon the latter he bestowed great attention. before replacing it in its sheath he lifted it to his lips and reverently kissed the blade! the soul of jean petit was not absolutely without gratitude.

petit moved quickly, silently back to the hut. the figure, lying face down upon the floor, had not stirred in the least.

a pool, which would in daylight have glowed angrily[126] red, was slowly spreading around it, darkening the slabs of the floor as if someone had overturned a bottle of ink.

jean petit studied the position narrowly. he first of all picked up the tin and removed the lid.

there was certainly some money inside rolled up in a rag. petit undid the rag, using his teeth to loosen the knots, and turned out a handful of pence. again a curse of disappointment escaped him.

he glared angrily at the figure on the floor.

hans holterman had deceived him!

he had gone to the trouble of killing a man for less than three shillings in coppers!

for this he had nearly lost his own life. from which it may be seen that it is unwise to place credence in words of those who have dwelt too long in the bush—alone.

the convict moved about the house searching and thinking as he went. near the dead man’s bunk, on the packing case which had served him as a dressing-table, lay a razor. petit put this in his pocket; but a second later an idea came to him, and, going out, he stooped down by the body, with the razor open in his hand, dabbling the blade.

the reason of this was not made apparent until may days later, when the body of hans holterman was found with a blood stained razor in its hand, and the coronial inquiry resulted in a verdict of suicide whilst of unsound mind.

petit cold-bloodedly lit a match and found a candle-end, and surveyed the scene without a shudder.

[127]

the light danced up and down the walls, throwing fantastic shadows as the murderer set to work.

having emptied the pence into his pocket, he replaced the tea-tin on the mantel-shelf, mended the broken stool, and removed all trace of the struggle.

he neglected no detail, even to sweeping of the floor, lest any evidence of trampling feet should remain in the dust.

it was nearly midnight before petit loped off into the bush with a bundle over his shoulder.

he strode forward without once looking back. as he turned northward, heavy drops of rain began to pelter down from a passing thundercloud, which had suddenly obscured the stars, and a ghastly grin of appreciation crossed his face when a livid flash of lightning reddened his path.

the elements were with him.

before an hour a violent rainstorm had washed out all tracks, and the tiger of paris curled up in the shelter of an overhanging rock, slept as calmly untroubled by remorse as any other beast of prey.