t he was getting home
some heavy body blows that were playing the mischief with Jerry's wind.

The New Yorker, puffing like a sea lion, came out of a rally winded and
spent. Instantly Clay took the offensive. He was a trained boxer as
well as a fighter, and he had been taught how to make every ounce of
his weight count. Ripping in a body blow as a feint, he brought down
Durand's guard. A straight left crashed home between the eyes and a
heavy solar plexus shook the man to the heels.

Durand tried to close with him. An uppercut jolted him back. He
plunged forward again. They grappled, knocking over chairs as they
threshed across the room. When they went down Clay was underneath, but
as they struck the floor he whirled and landed on top.

The man below fought furiously to regain his feet. Clay's arm worked
like a piston rod with short-arm jolts against the battered face.

A wild heave unseated the Arizonan. They clinched, rolled over and
bumped against the wall, Clay again on top. For a moment Durand got a
thumb in his foe's eye and tried to gouge it out. Clay's fingers found
the throat of the gang leader and tightened. Jerry struggled to free
himself, catching at the sinewy wrist with both hands. He could not
break the iron grip. Gasping for breath, he suddenly collapsed.

Clay got to his feet and waited for Durand to rise. His enemy rolled
over and groaned.

"Had enough?" demanded the Westerner.

No answer came, except the heavy, irregular breathing of the man on the
floor who was clawing for air in his lungs.

"I'll ask you once more where Kitty Mason is. And you'll tell me
unless you want me to begin on you all over again."

The beaten pugilist sat up, leaning against the wall. He spoke with a
kind of heavy despair, as though the words were forced out of him. He
felt ashamed and disgraced by his defeat. Life for him had lost its
savor, for he had met his master.

"She--got away."

"How?"

"They turned her loose, to duck the bulls," came the slow, sullen
answer.

"Where?"

"In Central Park."

Probably this was the truth, Clay reflected. He could take the man's
word or not as he pleased. There was no way to disprove it now.

He recovered his revolver, threw the automatic out of the window, and
walked to the door.

"Joe's tied up in a back room," he said over his shoulder.

Thirty seconds later Clay stepped into the street. He walked across to
a subway station and took an up