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Give it to me, I tell you."
Ted had managed to put the letter back into his pocket. His right arm
was twisted under his body, and he could not release it.
He looked up into the face of the man, who was straddling his body, and
saw a gleam of malignant hatred in his eyes.
"Let me up, you cur," said Ted.
"After I get the letter," was the reply.
"It's a private letter, and not for you. Let me up!"
Now Ted saw that the man had a knife in his hand--a long, keen knife,
with a pearl hilt and a silver guard.
"If you don't give me that letter at once, you'll not get another
chance, but I'll have it," snarled the man.
Ted began to struggle, but he soon saw that he could do nothing with one
arm out of commission. The man was not only powerful, but heavy, and it
was all Ted could do to more than wriggle his body.
"I tell you you shan't have it," said Ted.
The knife went above the man's head, and in the wielder's face was a
look of the most diabolical hatred Ted had ever seen in a human
countenance.


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