“The end of our struggle, I presume?” he said to Quest, pointing to the metal band.  “You will at least admit that I have shown you fine sport?”

No one answered him.  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.  Again the change came into his face which they had seen in the mirror.  French dashed forward towards him.  The Professor snarled, seemed about to spring, then suddenly once more stretched out his hands to show that he was helpless and handed to Quest the paper upon which he had been writing.

“You have nothing to fear from me,” he exclaimed.  “Here is my last message to you, Sanford Quest.  Read it—­read it aloud.  Always remember that this was not your triumph but mine.”

Quest held up the paper.  They all read.  The Professor’s letters were carefully formed, his handwriting perfectly legible.

    “You have been a clever opponent, Sanford Quest, but even now
    you are to be cheated.  The wisdom of the ages outreaches yours,
    outreaches it and triumphs.”

Quest looked up quickly.

“What the devil does he mean?” he muttered.

The Professor’s arms shot suddenly above his head.  Again that strange, animal look convulsed his features.  He burst into a loud, unnatural laugh.

“Mean, you fool?” he cried, holding out his wrist, which was slowly turning black.  “Poisoned!  That is what it means!”