Marcus had made a quick, peculiar motion, swinging his arm upward
with a wide and sweeping gesture; his jack-knife lay open in his palm;
it shot forward as he flung it, glinted sharply by McTeague's head, and
struck quivering into the wall behind.
A sudden chill ran through the room; the others stood transfixed, as at
the swift passage of some cold and deadly wind. Death had stooped there
for an instant, had stooped and past, leaving a trail of terror and
confusion. Then the door leading to the street slammed; Marcus had
disappeared.
Thereon a great babel of exclamation arose. The tension of that all but
fatal instant snapped, and speech became once more possible.
"He would have knifed you."
"Narrow escape."
"What kind of a man do you call THAT?"
"'Tain't his fault he ain't a murderer."
"I'd have him up for it."
"And they two have been the greatest kind of friends."
"He didn't touch you, did he?"
"No--no--no."
"What a--what a devil! What treachery! A regular greaser trick!"
"Look out he don't stab you in the back. If that's the kind of man he
is, you never can tell."
Frenna drew the knife from the wall.
"Guess I'll keep this toad-stabber," he observed.
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