Then it stuck, and, even as I ventured to exert my strength to greater extent to force it upward, the single door directly opposite, evidently leading into the hall, was flung violently open, and I sank back out of view, yet instantly aware that the first party to enter was Joe Kirby.
Without venturing to lift my eyes to the level of the opening, I could nevertheless imagine his movements, while the sound of his voice when he spoke was as distinct as though I stood beside him.

He strode forward to the table, striking the wooden top angrily with his fist and knocking something crashing to the floor.
"You know where she is, don't you ?" he asked, in the same threatening tone he had used without.
"Of course I do; didn't I help put her there ?" It was Carver who replied, standing in the open doorway.
"Then bring the hussy in here.

By God! I'll make the wench talk, if I have to choke it out of her; she'll learn what it means to be a nigger." The door closed, and Kirby strode across to the fireplace, muttering to himself, and stood there, an arm on the mantel, nervously stirring up the dead ashes with one foot.

Plainly enough the events of the night had overcome all his boasted self-control, his gambler's coolness, and the real underlying brutality of his nature demanded expression.

He yearned to crush, and hurt something--something that would cringe before him.