Quick, Des, the door!" my brother gasped. "Lock the door!"

The big German was roaring like a bull and plunging wildly under my
brother's fingers, his clubfoot beating a thunderous tattoo on the
parquet floor. In his fall Clubfoot's left arm had been bent under him
and was now pinioned to the ground by his great weight. With his free
right arm he strove fiercely to force off my brother's fingers as
Francis fought to get a grip on the man's throat and choke him into
silence.

I darted to the door. The key was on the inside and I turned it in a
trice. As I turned to go to my brother's help my eye caught sight of the
butt of my pistol lying where Schmalz had thrown it the evening before
under my overcoat on the leather lounge.

I snatched up the weapon and dropped by my brother's side, crushing
Clubfoot's right arm to the ground. I thrust the pistol in his face.

"Stop that noise!" I commanded.

The German obeyed.

"Better search him, Francis," I said to my brother. "He probably has a
Browning on him somewhere."

Francis went through the man's pockets, reaching up and putting each
article as it came to light on the desk above him. From an inner breast
pocket he extracted the Browning. He glanced at it: the magazine was
full with a cartridge in the breech.

"Hadn't we better truss him up?" Francis said to me.

"No," I said. I was still kneeling on the German's arm. He seemed
exhausted. His head had fallen back upon the ground.

"Let me up, curse you!" he choked.

"No!" I said again and Francis turned and looked at me.

Each of us knew what was in the other's mind, my brother and I. We were
thinking of a hand-clasp we had exchanged on the banks of the Rhine.

I was about to speak but Francis checked me. He was trembling all over.
I could feel his elbow quiver where it touched mine.

"No, Des, please ..." he pleaded, "let me ... this is my show...."

Then, in a voice that vibrated with suppressed passion, he spoke swiftly
to Clubfoot.

"Take a good look at me, Grundt," he said sternly. "You don't know me,
do you? I am Francis Okewood, brother of the man who has brought you to
your fall. You don't know me, but you knew some of my friends, I think.
Jack Tracy? Do you remember him? And Herbert Arbuthnot? Ah, you knew
him, too. And Philip Brewster? You remember him as well, do you? No need
to ask you what happened to poor Philip!"

The man on the floor answered nothing, but I saw the colour very slowly
fade f