At no time since Pierre
Breault had revealed the golden snare had the situation been more
of an enigma to him than now. Was Bram Johnson actually mad--or
was he playing a colossal sham? The question had unleashed itself
in his brain with a suddenness that had startled him. Out of the
past a voice came to him distinctly, and it said, "A madman never
forgets!" It was the voice of a great alienist, a good friend of
his, with whom he had discussed the sanity of a man whose crime
had shocked the country. He knew that the words were true. Once
possessed by an idea the madman will not forget it. It becomes an
obsession with him--a part of his existence. In his warped brain a
suspicion never dies. A fear will smolder everlastingly. A hatred
lives steadily on.
If Bram Johnson was mad would he play the game as he was playing
it now! He had almost killed Philip for possession of the food,
that the girl might have the last crumb of it. Now, without a sign
of the madman's caution, he had left it all within his reach
again.
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