Even Quest had barely yet recovered himself. The
Professor shrugged his shoulders.
"I recognise, of course," he said gravely, "that this is the end. A person
_in extremis_ has privileges. Will you allow me to write just a matter of
twenty lines at your desk?"
Silently Quest assented. The Professor seated himself in the swing chair,
drew a sheet of paper towards him, dipped the pen in the ink and began to
write. Then he turned round and reached for his own small black bag which
lay upon the table. Quest caught him by the wrist.
"What do you want out of that, Professor?" he enquired.
"Merely my own pen and ink," the Professor expostulated. "If there is
anything I detest in the world, it is violet ink. And your pen, too, is
execrable. As these are to be the last words I shall leave to a sorrowing
world, I should like to write them in my own fashion. Open the bag for
yourself, if you will. You can pass me the things out."
Quest opened the bag, took out a pen and a small glass bottle of ink. He
handed them to the Professor, who started once more to write. Quest
watched him for a moment and then turned away to French. The Professor
looked over his shoulder and suddenly bared his wrist. Lenora seized her
employer by the arm.
"Look!" she cried. "What is he going to do?"
Quest swung round, but he was too late. The Professor had dug the pen into
his arm. He sat in his chair and laughed as they all hurried towards him.
Then suddenly he sprang to his feet.
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