He had lost a part of the lawyer’s speech, but peered through his observation-hole again.

McNamara was at the window gazing out into the dark street, his back towards the lawyer, who lolled in the chair, babbling garrulously of the girl.  Glenister ground his teeth—­a frenzy possessed him to loose his anger, to rip through the frail ceiling with naked hands and fall vindictively upon the two men.

“She looked good to me the first time I saw her,” continued Struve.  He paused, and when he spoke again a change had coarsened his features, “Say, I’m crazy about her, Mac.  I tell you, I’m crazy—­and she likes me—­I know she does—­or, anyway, she would—­”

“Do you mean that you’re in love with her?” asked the man at the window, without shifting his position.  It seemed that utter indifference was in his question, although where the light shone on his hands, tight-clinched behind his back, they were bloodless.

“Love her?  Well—­that depends—­ha!  You know how it is—­” he chuckled, coarsely.  His face was gross and bestial.  “I’ve got the Judge where I want him, and I’ll have her—­”

His miserable words died with a gurgle, for McNamara had silently leaped and throttled him where he sat, pinning him to the wall.  Glenister saw the big politician shift his fingers slightly on Struve’s throat and then drop his left hand to his side, holding his victim writhing and helpless with his right despite the man’s frantic struggles.  McNamara’s head was thrust forward from his shoulders, peering into the lawyer’s face.  Strove tore ineffectually at the iron arm which was squeezing his life out, while for endless minutes the other leaned his weight against him, his idle hand behind his back, his legs braced like stone columns, as he watched his victim’s struggles abate.

Struve fought and wrenched while his breath caught in his throat with horrid, sickening sounds, but gradually his eyes rolled farther and farther back till they stared out of his blackened visage, straight up towards the ceiling, towards the hole through which Glenister peered.  His struggles lessened, his chin sagged, and his tongue protruded, then he sat loose and still.  The politician flung him out into the room so that he fell limply upon his face, then stood watching him.  Finally, McNamara passed out of the watcher’s vision, returning with a water-bucket.  With his foot he rolled the unconscious wretch upon his back, then drenched him.  Replacing the pail, he seated himself, lit a cigar, and watched the return of life into his victim.  He made no move, even to drag him from the pool in which he lay.

Struve groaned and shuddered, twisted to his side, and at last sat up weakly.  In his eyes there was now a great terror, while in place of his drunkenness was only fear and faintness—­abject fear of the great bulk that sat and smoked and stared at him so fishily.  He felt uncertainly of his throat, and groaned again.