In vain I sought
to drag him away from the writhing body, but I doubt that any man
could have relaxed that deadly grip. Tcheriapin's eyes protruded
hideously and his tongue lolled forth from his mouth. One could
hear the breath whistling through his nostrils as Andrews
silently, deliberately, squeezed the life out of him.
It all occupied only a few minutes, and then Andrews, slowly
opening his rigidly crooked fingers, stood panting and looking
down at the distorted face of the dead man.
For once in his life the Scotsman was sober, and turning to Dr.
Kreener:
"I have waited seven long years for this," he said, "and I'll
hang wi' contentment."
I can never forget the ensuing moments, in which, amid a horrible
silence broken only by the ticking of a clock and the heavy
breathing of Colquhoun (so long known to us as Andrews) we stood
watching the contorted body on the settee.
And as we watched, slowly the rigid limbs began to relax, and
Tcheriapin slid gently on to the floor, collapsing there with a
soft thud, where he squatted like some hideous Buddha, resting
back against the cushions, one spectral yellow hand upraised, the
fingers still clutching a big gold tassel.
Andrews (for so I always think of him) was seized with a violent
fit of trembling, and he dropped into the chair, muttering to
himself and looking down wild-eyed at his twitching fingers.
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