-a burly, blackavised scoundrel who straddled
the chest of his prey, a knee pinning down either arm, both hands busy
with efforts to make an unappetising bandana serve as a gag.

Pardonably rewarded for this inconsiderate treatment, the fat one
suddenly snatched one hand away, conveyed a bitten finger to his
mouth, instantly spat it out together with a gust of masterful
profanity and, the other taking advantage of the opportunity to renew
his struggles, shifted his grip to Blue Serge's throat and, bending
forward, strove with purpose undoubtedly murderous to get possession
of the short Roman sword.

It lay just an inch beyond his reach. He strained his utmost toward
it, almost touched its haft with eager finger-tips.

At this a strange thing happened--strangest of all to Sally. For she,
who never in her life had touched firearm or viewed scene of violence
more desperate than a schoolboy squabble, discovered herself inside
the library, standing beside the desk and levelling at the head of the
heavy villain the automatic pistol that had rested there.

Simultaneously she was aware of the sound of her own voice, its
accents perhaps a bit shaky, but none the less sharp, crying: "Stop!
Don't you dare! Drop that sword and put up your hands! I say, put up
your hands!"

The stout assassin started back and turned up to the amazing
apparition of her a ludicrous mask of astonishment, eyes agoggle,
mouth agape, pendulous beard-rusty chin aquiver like some unsavoury
sort of jelly. Then slowly--thanks to something convincing in the
manner of this young woman, aflame as she was with indignant
championship of the under dog--he elevated two grimy hands to a point
of conspicuous futility; and a husky whisper; like a stifled roar,
rustled past his lips:

"Well, can yuh beat it?"

A thrill of self-confidence galvanised the person of Miss Manvers,
steadying at once her hand and her voice.

"Get up!" she snapped. "No--keep your hands in sight. Get up somehow,
and be quick about it!"

Without visible reluctance, if with some difficulty, like a clumsy
automaton animated by unwilling springs, the fat scoundrel lurched
awkwardly to his feet and paused.

"Very good." She was surprised at the cold, level menace of her tone.
"Now stand back--to the wall! Quick!"

She was abruptly interrupted by a vast, discordant bellow: "Look out,
lady! Look out! That gun might go off!"

And as if hoping by that sudden and deafening roar to startle