He believed that Mercer was talking. Several times a day he heard him
in conversation with the guard, and not infrequently Mercer went down
to the Landing, twirling a little reed cane that he had not dared to
use before. He began to drop opinions and information to Kent in a
superior sort of way. On the fourth day word came that Doctor Cardigan
would not return for another forty-eight hours, and with unblushing
conceit Mercer intimated that when he did return he would find big
changes. Then it was that in the stupidity of his egotism he said:

"Kedsty has taken a great fancy to me, Kent. He's a square old top,
when you take him right. Had me over this afternoon, and we smoked a
cigar together. When I told him that I looked in at your window last
night and saw you going through a lot of exercises, he jumped up as if
some one had stuck a pin in him. 'Why, I thought he was sick--BAD!' he
said. And I let him know there were better ways of making a sick man
well than Cardigan's. 'Give them plenty to eat,' I said. 'Let 'em live
normal,' I argued. 'Look at Kent, for instance,' I told him. 'He's been
eating like a bear for a week, and he can turn somersaults this
minute!' That topped him over, Kent. I knew it would be a bit of a
surprise for him, that I should do what Cardigan couldn't do. He walked
back and forth, black as a hat--thinking of Cardigan, I suppose. Then
he called in that Pelly chap and gave him something which he wrote on a
piece of paper. After that he shook hands with me, slapped me on the
shoulder most intimately, and gave me another cigar. He's a keen old
blade, Kent. He doesn't need more than one pair of eyes to see what
I've done since Cardigan went away!"

If ever Kent's hands had itched to get at the throat of a human being,
the yearning convulsed his fingers now. At the moment when he was about
to act Mercer had betrayed him to Kedsty! He turned his face away so
that Mercer could not see what was in his eyes. Under his body he
concealed his clenched hands. Within himself he fought against the
insane desire that was raging in his blood, the desire to leap on
Mercer and kill him. If Cardigan had reported his condition to Kedsty,
it would have been different. He would have accepted the report as a
matter of honorable necessity on Cardigan's part. But Mercer--a toad
blown up by his own wind, a consummate fiend who would sell his best
friend, a fool, an ass--

For a space he held himself rigid as a stone,