As soon as the urgent danger passed, Heberdon’s brain began to slip again, but with a difference. It was not the fog of apathy that obscured his faculties now, but the poisonous gas of rage. That white-hot flame burned through his brain like an acetylene torch.
“He trapped me! I was a fool to think him so simple! All the time he was drawing me out, and planning how to trap me. Cora helped him! Oh, God, they planned it together—laughing! She wrote that letter just to decoy me, and he left it in his pocket where I would find it! But I’ll show them! To-night! First him and then her— Unless I find them together.”
He went to his rooms and got his revolver. He walked the five short blocks that separated Gramercy Park from Twenty-fifth Street. It still lacked a few minutes of eight o’clock, and
