Whatever the cause, I suddenly became
conscious that I was passing into a state of high mental tension; I
wanted to scream, to beat impotently upon the air; Jeckley would
have put it that I was within an ace of flying off the handle.
A deafening clash of clanging metal smote my ears. It should have
been the finishing touch, and it was, but not after the fashion
that might have been expected. As though by magic, the horrible
tension relaxed; my nerves again took command of the situation; I
felt as cool and collected as at any previous moment in my life.
In the centre of the room stood a heavy table of some East-Indian
wood--teak, I think, they call it. I could have sworn that there
was nothing whatever upon this table when I entered the room; now I
saw three objects lying there. I walked up and examined them. As
they lay towards me, the first was a ten- thousand-dollar bill, the
second a loaded revolver, caliber .44, the third an envelope of
heavy white paper directed to me, Winston Thorp. The letter was
brief and formal; it read:
"Mr. Indiman presents his compliments to Mr. Thorp and requests the
honor of his company at dinner, Tuesday, March the thirtieth, at
nine o'clock.
"4020 Madison Avenue."
Dishonor, death, and dinner--a curious trio to choose between.
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