CHAPTER II
THE MAN IN THE DARK
For several seconds the two stood thus, the man dumfounded,moveless, gaping, the girl as grimly resolute as Fate itself,the little revolver steady, its muzzle unwaveringly menacingBrice's face. The collie continued to gyrate, thunderouslyaround the tree.
"I don't want to shoot you," said the girl presently, and,through her voice's persistent sternness, Gavin fancied hecould read a thrill of very feminine concern. "I don't wantto shoot you. If I can help it. You will put your hands up."
Meekly, Brice obeyed.
"Now," she resumed, "you will turn around, and go back the wayyou came. And you will go as fast as you can travel. I shallfollow you to the second turning. Then I shall fire into theair. That will bring--one or more of the men. And they willsee you don't turn back. I'm--I'm giving you that much chanceto get away. Because I--I don't want--"
She hesitated. The grimness had begun to seep out of hersweet voice. The revolver-muzzle wobbled, ever so little.
"I'm sorry," began Brice. "But--"
"I don't care to hear any explanations," she cut him short,sternly. "Your coming along that path could mean only onething. You will do as I say.--You will turn about and makewhat use you can of the start I'm offering you. Now--"
"I'm sorry," repeated Brice, more determinedly, and tryinghard to keep his twitching face straight. "But I can't dowhat you ask. It was hard enough coming along that path,while the light lasted. If I were to go back over it in thedark, I'd break my neck on a million mangrove roots. If it'sjust the same to you, I'll take my chances with the pistol.It'll be an easier death, and in pleasanter company. So, ifyou really must shoot then blaze away!"
He lowered his upraised arms, folding them melodramatically onhis breast, while he sought, through the gloom, to note theeffect of his solemnly uttered speech. The effect was fardifferent and less sensational than he had expected. At thefirst sound of his voice that was audible above the collie'sbarks, the girl lowered the revolver and leaned forward to get aclearer view of his face, beneath the shadow of the vine-leaves.
"I--I thought--" she stammered, and added lamely "I thoughtyou were--were--were some one else." She paused, then shewent on with some slight return of her earlier sternness "Justthe same, your coming here by that path..."
"There is no magic about it," he assured her, "and very littlemystery. I was taking a stroll along the shore, when Ihappened upon that mass of dynamite and fur and springs,yonder. (In his rare moments of calm, he is a collie,--thebest type of show collie, at that.) He ran ahead of me,through the tangle of mangrove boughs. I followed, and founda path. He seemed anxious to explore the path, and I kept onfollowing him, until--"
The girl seemed for the first time aware of the dog's noisypresence.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, looking at the rackety and leaping colliein much surprise. "I thought it was the stable dog that hadtreed Simon Cameron! I didn't notice. He-- Why!" she cried,"that's Bobby Burns! We lost him, on the way here from thestation! My brother has gone back to Miami to offer a rewardfor him. He came from the North, this morning. We drove intotown to get him. On the way out, he must have fallen from theback seat. We didn't miss him till we-- How did you happento find him?"
"He was on the beach, back yonder," explained Brice. "Heseemed to adopt me, and..."
"Haven't I met you, somewhere?" she broke in, studying hisdim-seen face more intently and at closer range.
"No," he made answer. "But you've seen me. At least I sawyou. You, and a big man with a gold beard and a white silksuit, and this collie, were in a car, listening to Bryan'ssermon, this morning. I recognized the collie, as soon as Isaw him again. And I guessed what must have happened. Iguessed, too, that he was a new dog, and that he hadn'tlearned the way home, yet. It's lucky I was able to bring himto you. Or, rather, that he was able to bring himself toyou."
"And to think I rewarded you for all your trouble, bythreatening to shoot you!" she said, in sharp contrition.
"Oh, please don't feel sorry for that!" he begged. "It wasn'treally as deadly as you made it seem. That is an old stylerevolver, you see, vintage of 1880 or thereabouts, I shouldsay. Not a self-cocker. And, you'll notice it isn't cocked.So, even if you had stuck to your lethal threat and had pulledthe trigger ever so hard, I'd still be more or less alive.You'll excuse me for mentioning it," he ended in apology,noting her crestfallen air. "Any novice in the art of slayingmight have done the same thing. Shooting people is anaccomplishment that improves with practice."
Coldly, she turned away, and crossed to where the collie wasbeginning to weary of his fruitless efforts to climb theshinily smooth bark of the giant gumbo-limbo. Catching him bythe collar, she said:
"Bobby! Bobby Burns! Stop that silly barking! Stop it atonce! And leave poor little Simon Cameron alone! Aren't youashamed?"
Now, Bobby was not in the least ashamed--except for hisfailure to reach his elusive prey. But, like many highbredand highstrung collies, he did not fancy having his collarseized by a stranger. He did not resent the act with snarlsand a show of teeth, as in the case of the beach comber. Buthe stiffened to offended dignity, and, with a sudden jerk,freed himself from the little detaining hand.
Then, loftily, he stalked across to Gavin and thrust hismuzzle once more into the man's cupped palm. As clearly as bya dictionary-ful of words, he had rebuked her familiarity andhad shown to whom he felt he owed sole allegiance.
While the girl was still staring in rueful indignation at thissnub from her dog, Brice found time and thought to stare withstill greater intentness up the tree, at a bunch of bristlingfur which occupied the first crotch and which glaredwrathfully down at the collie.
He made out the contour and bashed-in profile of a hugePersian cat, silver-gray of hue, dense of coat, green of eye.
"So that's Simon Cameron?" he queried. "What a beauty! Andwhat a quaintly Oriental name you've chosen for him!"
"He is named," said the girl, still icily, "for a statesman myparents admired. My brother says our Persian's hair is justthe same color as Simon Cameron's used to be. That's why wenamed him that. You'll notice the cat has the beautifullestsilvery gray hair--"
"Prematurely gray, I'm sure," put in Brice, civilly.
She looked at him, in doubt. But his face was grave. And sheturned to the task of coaxing the indignant Simon Cameron fromhis tree-refuge.
"Simon Cameron always walks around the grounds with me, atsunset," she explained, in intervals of cajoling the grumpymass of fluff to descend. "And he ran ahead of me, to-day, tothe edge of the path. That must have been when Bobby caughtsight of him..."
"Come, Kitty, Kitty, Kitty!" she coaxed. "Do be a good littlecat, and come down. See, the dog can't get at you, now. He'sbeing held. Come!"
The allurement of his mistress's voice produced no stirringeffect on the temperamental Simon Cameron. Beyond leaving thecrotch and edging mincingly downward, a yard or so, thePersian refused to obey the crooning summons. Plastered flatagainst the tree trunk, some nine feet above the ground, hemiaued dolefully.
"Hold Bobby's collar," suggested Brice, "and I think I can getthe prematurely grizzled catling to earth."
The girl came over to where man and dog stood, and took BobbyBurns by the collar. Brice crossed to the tree and lookedupward at the yowling Simon Cameron.
"Hello, you good little cat!" he hailed, cooingly. "Catsalways like to be called 'good,' you know. All of us areflattered when we're praised for something we aren't. A dogdoesn't care much about being called 'good.' Because he knowshe is. But a cat..."
As he talked, Gavin scratched gratingly on the tree trunk, andgazed up in ostentatious admiration at the coy Simon Cameron.The Persian, like all his kind, was foolishly open toadmiration. Brice's look, his crooning voice, hisentertaining fashion of scratching the tree for the cat'samusement all these proved a genuine lure. Down the treestarted Simon Cameron, moving backward, and haltingcoquettishly at eve
ry few inches.
Gavin reached up and lifted the fluffy creature from thetrunk, cradling him in expert manner in the crook of one arm.Simon Cameron forgot his fear and purred loudly, rubbing hissnub-nose face against his captor's sleeve.
"Don't feel too much flattered," adjured the girl. "He's likethat, with all strangers. As soon as he has known most peoplea day or two, he'll have nothing to do with them."
"I know," assented Gavin. "That's a trick of Persian cats.They have an inordinate interest in every one except thepeople they know. Their idea of heaven is to be admired by amillion strangers at a time. IfI'd had any tobacco-reek on me, Simon Cameron wouldn't havelet me hold him as long as this. Persian's hate tobacco."
He set the soothed animal down on the lawn, where, after onescornful look at the tugging and helpless dog, Simon Cameronproceeded to rub his arched back against the man's legs, thustransferring a goodly number of fluffy gray hairs to Brice'sshabby trousers. Tiring of this, he minced off, affectedly,toward the distant house that stood at the landward end of thesloping lawn.
As he set the cat down, Brice had stepped out of the shadowsof the grove, into the open. And now, not only his face, buthis whole body was clearly visible in the dying daylight. Thegirl's eyes ran appraisingly over the worn clothes and thecracking and dusty shoes. Brice felt, rather than saw, herappraisal. And he knew she was contrasting his costume withhis voice and his clean-shaven face. She broke the moment ofembarrassed silence by saying "You must be tired after yourlong tramp, from Miami. Were you walking for fun andexercise, or are you bound for any especial place?" He knewshe was fencing, that his clothes made her wonder if she oughtnot to offer him some cash payment for finding her dog,--areward she would never have dreamed of offering on thestrength of his manner and voice. Also, it seemed, she wasseeking some way of closing the interview without dismissinghim or walking away. And he answered with perfectsimplicity:
"No, I wasn't walking for exercise or fun. There are betterand easier ways of acquiring fun than by plodding for hours inthe hot sunshine. And of getting exercise, too. I was on myway to Homestead or to some farming place along the line,where I might pick up a job."
"Oh!"
"Yes. I could probably have gotten a place as dishwasher oreven as a 'bus' or porter, in one of the big Miami hotels," hepursued, "or a billet with one of the dredging gangs in theharbor. But somehow I'd rather do farm work of some sort. Itseems less of a slump, when a chap is down on his luck, thanto go in for scrubbing or for section-gang hustling. Thereare farms and citrus groves, all along here, just back of thebay. And I'm looking for one of them where I can get a decentday's work to do and a decent day's wages for doing it."
He spoke with an almost overdone earnestness. The girl waswatching him, attentively, a furrow between her straightbrows. Somehow, her level look made him uncomfortable. Hecontinued, with a shade less assurance:
"I was brought up on a farm, though I haven't been on onesince I was eighteen. I might have been better off if I'dstayed there. Anyhow, when a man's prospects of starving aregrowing brighter every day, a farm-job is about the pleasantestsort of work he can find."
"Starving!" she repeated, in something like contempt. "If youhad been in this region a little longer--say, long enough topronounce the name, 'Miami' as it's pronounced down here,instead of calling it 'Me-ah-mee,' as you did--if you'd beenhere longer, you'd know that nobody need starve in Florida.Nobody who is willing to work. There's the fishing, and theconstruction gangs, and the groves, and the farms, and amillion other ways of making a living. The weather lets yousleep outdoors, if you have to. The..."
"I've done it," he chimed in. "Slept outdoors, I mean. Lastnight, for instance. I slept very snugly indeed, under aTraveler Tree in the gardens of the Royal Palm Hotel. Therewas a dance at the hotel. I went to sleep, under the stars,to the lullaby of a corking good orchestra. The only drawbackwas that a spooning couple who were engineering a 'pettingparty,' almost sat down on my head, there in the darkness.Not that I'd have minded being a settee for them. But theymight have told one of the watchmen about my being there. AndI'd have had to hunt other sleeping quarters."
She did not abate that look of quizzical appraisal. And againGavin Brice began to feel uncomfortable under her scrutiny.
"You have an orange grove, back yonder, haven't you?" heasked, abruptly, nodding toward a landward stretch of groundshut off from the lawn by a thickset hedge of oleander.
"How did you know?" she demanded in suspicion. "By this lightyou couldn't possibly see--"
"Oddly enough," he said, in the pleasant drawling voice shewas learning to like in spite of her better judgment, "oddlyenough, I was born with a serviceable pair of nostrils. Thereis a scent of orange blossoms hanging fairly strong in theair. It doesn't come from the mangrove swamp behind me orfrom the highroad in front of your house or from the biggarden patch to the south of the lawn. So I made a SherlockHolmes guess that it must be over there to northward, andpretty close. Besides, that's the only direction the TradeWinds could bring the scent from."
Again, she was aware of a certain glibness in his tone,--aglibness that annoyed her and at the same time piqued hercuriosity.
"Yes," she said, none too cordially. "Our orange groves arethere. Why do you ask?"
"Only," he replied, "because where there are large citrusgroves on one side of a house and fairly big vegetable gardenson the other, it means the need for a good bit of labor. Andthat may mean a chance for a job. Or it may not. You'll pardonmy suggesting it.
"My brother needs no more labor," she replied. "At least, Iam quite certain he doesn't. In fact, he has more men workinghere now than he actually needs. I--I've heard him say so.Of course, I'll be glad to ask him, when he comes back fromtown. And if you'd care to leave your address--"
"Gladly," said Brice. "Any letter addressed to me, as 'GavinBrice, in care of Traveler Tree, rear gardens of Royal PalmHotel,' will reach me. Unless, of course, the night watchmenchance to root me out. In that case, I'll leave word withthem where mail may be forwarded. In the meantime, it'sgetting pretty dark, and I don't know this part of Dade Countyas well as I'd like to. So I'll be starting on. If you don'tmind, I'll cross your lawn, and take the main road. It'seasier going, at night than by way of the mangrove swamp andthe beach. Good night, Miss--"
"Wait!" she interposed, worry creeping into her sweet voice."I--I can't let you go like this. Do you really mean you haveto sleep out of doors and that you have no money? I don'twant to be impertinent, but--"
"'Nobody need starve in Florida,'" he quoted, gravely."'Nobody who is willing to work. The weather lets you sleepoutdoors.' (In which, the weather chimes harmoniously with mypocketbook.) And, as I am extremely 'willing to work,' itfollows that I can't possibly starve. But I thank you forfeeling concerned about me. It's a long day since a woman hasbothered her head whether I live or die. Good night, again,Miss--"
A second time, she ignored his hint that she tell him hername. Too much worried over his light words and the real needthey seemed to cover, to heed the subtler intent, she said, alittle tremulously:
"I--I don't understand you, at all. Not that it is anybusiness of mine, of course. But I hate to think that any oneis in need of food or shelter. Your voice and your face andthe way you talk--they don't fit in with the rest of you.Such men as yourself don't drift, penniless, through LowerFlorida, looking for day-laborer jobs. I can't understand--"
"Every one who speaks decent English and yet is down-and-out,"he said, quietly, "isn't necessarily a tramp or a fugitivefrom justice. And he doesn't need to be a man of mystery,either. Suppose, let's say, a clerk in New York has been tooill, for a long time, to work. Suppose illness has eaten allhis savings, and that he doesn't care to borrow, when he knowshe may never be able to pay. Suppose his doctor tells him hemust go South, to get braced up, and to avoid a New YorkFebruary and March. Suppose the patient has only about moneyenough to get here, and relies on findin
g something to do tokeep him in food and lodging. Well--there's nothingmysterious or especially discreditable in that, is there? ...The dew is beginning to fall. And I'm keeping you out here inthe damp. Good night, Miss--Miss--"
"Standish," she supplied, but speaking absently, hermind still perturbed at his plight. "My name is Standish.Claire Standish."
"Mine is Gavin Brice," he said. "Good night. Keep hold ofBobby Burns's collar, till I'm well on my way. He may try tofollow me. Good-by, old chap," he added, bending down andtaking the collie's silken head affectionately between hishands. "You're a good dog, and a good pal. But put the softpedal on the temperamental stuff, when you're near SimonCameron. That's the best recipe for avoiding a scratchednose. By the way, Miss Standish, don't encourage him to roamaround in the palmetto scrub, on your outings with him. Therattlesnakes have gotten many a good dog, in Florida. He--"
"Mr. Brice!" she broke in. "If I offend you, I can't help it.Won't you please let me--let me lend you enough money to keepyou going, till you get a good job? Please do! Of course,you can pay me, as soon as--"
"'I have not found such faith,--no, not in Israel!'" quotedBrice, a new note in his voice which somehow stirred theembarrassed girl's heart. "You have only my bare word thatI'm not a panhandler or a crook. And yet you believe in meenough to--"
"You will let me?" she urged, eagerly. "Say you will! Sayit."
"I'll make cleaner use of your faith," he returned, "by askingyou to say a good word for me to your brother, if ever I comeback here looking for a job. No, no!" he broke off, fiercely,before she could answer. "I don't mean that. You must donothing of the kind. Forget I asked it."
With which amazing outburst, he turned on his heel, ran acrossthe lawn, leaped the low privet hedge which divided it fromthe coral road, and made off at a swinging pace in thedirection of Coconut Grove and Miami.
"What a fool--and what a cur--a man can make of himself," hemuttered disgustedly as he strode along, without daring tolook back at the wondering little white-clad figure, watchinghim out of sight around the bend, "when he gets to talkingwith a woman--a woman with--with eyes like hers! They--why,they make me feel as if I was in church! What sort ofbungling novice am I, anyhow, for work like this?"
With a grunt of self-contempt, he drove his hands deep intothe pockets of his shabby trousers and quickened his pace.His fingers closed mechanically around a roll of bills, ofvery respectable size, in the depths of his right-hand pocket.The gesture caused a litter of small change to give forth amuffled jingle. A sense of shame crept over the man, at thecontact.
"She wanted to lend me money!" he muttered, half-aloud."Money! Not give it to me, as a beggar, but to lend it tome.... Her nose has the funniest little tilt to it! And shecan't be an inch over five feet tall! ... I'm a wall-eyedidiot!"
He stood aside to let two cars pass him, one going in eitherdirection. The lamps of the car from the west, travelingeast, showed him for a moment the occupant of the car that wasmoving westward. The brief ray shone upon a pair of shouldersas wide as a steam radiator. They were clad in loose-fittingwhite silk. Above them a thick golden beard caught the ray ofshifting light. Then, both cars had passed on, and Brice wasresuming his trudge.
"Milo Standish!" he mused, looking back at the car as itvanished in a cloudlet of white coral-dust. "Milo Standish!... As big as two elephants .... 'The bigger they are, theharder they fall.'"
The road curved, from the Standish estate, in almost a "C"formation, before straightening out, a mile to the north, intothe main highway. Gavin Brice had just reached the end of the"C" when there was a scurrying sound behind him, in agrapefruit grove to his right. Something light and agilescrambled over the low coral-block wall, and flung itselfrapturously on him.
It was Bobby Burns.
The collie had suffered himself to be led indoors by the girlwhom he had never seen until that morning, and for whom, thusfar, he had formed no affection. But his wistful, deepsetdark eyes had followed Gavin Brice's receding form. He couldnot believe this dear new friend meant to desert him. AsBrice did not stop, nor even look back, the collie waxeddoubtful. And he tugged to be free. Claire spoke gently tohim, a slight quiver in her own voice, her dark eyes, likehis, fixed upon the dwindling dark speck on the dusky whiteroad.
"No, Bobby!" she said, under her breath, as she petted therestless head. "He won't come back. Let's forget all aboutit. We both behaved foolishly, you and I, Bobby. Andhe--well, let's just call him eccentric, and not think abouthim any more."
She drew the reluctant collie into the house, and closed thedoor. But, a few minutes later, when her back chanced to beturned, and when a maid came into the room leaving the doorajar, Bobby slipped out.
In another five seconds he was in the road, casting about forBrice's trail. Finding it, he set off, at a hard gallop,nostrils close to the ground. Having once been hit andbruised, in puppyhood, by a motor car, the dog had a wholesomerespect for such rapid and ill-smelling vehicles. Thus, as hesaw the lights and heard the engine-purr of one of them,coming toward him, down the road, he dodged back into thewayside hedge until it passed. Which is the reason MiloStandish failed to see the dog he had been hunting for.
A little later, Brice's scent became so distinct that thecollie could abandon his nose-to-the-ground tactics and strikeacross country, by dead-reckoning, guided not only by his nosebut by the sound of Gavin's steps. Then, in an access ofdelight, he burst upon the plodding man.
"Why, Bobby!" exclaimed Brice, touched by the dog's rapture inhaving found him again. "Why, Bobby Burns! What on earthmade you follow me? Don't you know I'm not your master?Don't you, Bobby?"
He was petting the frisking collie as he talked. But now hefaced about.
"I've got to take you back to her, old man!" he informed thehighly interested dog. "You belong to her. And she'll worryabout you. I'll just take you into the dooryard or to thefront lawn or whatever it is, and tie you there, so some onewill find you. I don't want to get my plans all messed up byanother talk with her, to-night. It's a mean trick to play onyou, after you've taken all the trouble to follow me. Butyou're hers. After this rotten business is all over, maybeI'll try to buy you. It's worth ninety per cent of your valueto have had you pick me out for your master. Any man withcash enough can be a dog's owner, Bobby. But all the cash inthe world won't make him the dog's master without the dog'sown consent. Ever stop to think of that, Bobby?"
As he talked, half incoherently, to the delighted collie,Gavin was retracing his way over the mile or so he had justtraversed. He grudged the extra steps. For the day had beenlong and full of exercise. And he was more than comfortablytired. But he kept on, wondering vexedly at the little throbof eagerness in his heart as Claire Standish's home at lastbulked dimly into view around the last curve of the byroad.
Bobby Burns trotted happily beside him, reveling in the man'soccasional rambling words, as is the flattering way collieshave when they are talked to, familiarly, by the human theylove. And so the two neared the house, their paddingfootsteps noiseless in the soft white dust of the road.
There were lights in several windows. One strong ray was castfull across the side lawn, penetrating almost as far as thebeginning of the forest at the rear. Toward this vivid beam,Gavin bent his steps, fumbling in his pocket as he went, forsomething with which to tie Bobby to the nearest tree.
As he moved forward and left the road for the closecroppedgrass of the lawn, he saw a dim white shadow advancingobliquely in his direction. And, for an instant, hisheartbeats quickened, ever so slightly. Then, he wasdisgusted with his own fatuousness. For the white form wasdouble the size of Claire Standish. And he knew this was herbrother, crossing from the garage to a door of the house.
The big man swung along with the easy gait of perfect physicalstrength. And as the window, whence flowed the light-ray, wasalongside the door he intended to enter, his journey towardthe house lay in the direct path of the ray.
Brice,
in the darkness, just inside the gateway, stoodmoveless and waited for him to traverse the hundred feet or sothat remained between him and the veranda. The colliefidgeted, at sight of the man in white, and began to growl,inquiringly, far down in his throat.
Gavin patted Bobby Burns reassuringly on the head, to quiethim. He was of no mind to introduce himself at the Standishhome, a second time, as the returner of a runaway dog.Wherefore, he sought to remain unseen, and to wait with whatpatience he could until the householder should have goneindoors.
Apparently, on reaching home, Standish had driven the car tothe garage and had pottered around there for some minutesbefore starting for the house. He was carrying somethingloosely in one hand, and he did not seem in any hurry.
"My friend," said Gavin, soundlessly, "if a girl like ClaireStandish was waiting for me, beyond, that shaft of light, I'dmake the trip in something better than no time at all. Butthen--she's not my sister, thank the good Lord!"
He grinned at his own silly thoughts concerning the girl hehad talked to for so brief a time. Yet he found himselflooking at her elder brother with a certain reluctantfriendliness, on her account.
Suddenly, the grin was wiped from his face, and he was tensefrom head to foot.
Standish, on his way homeward, was strolling past a clump ofdwarf shrubbery. And, idly watching him, Gavin could havesworn that one end of the shrubbery moved.
Then, he was no longer in doubt. The bit of darkness detacheditself from the rest of the shrubbery, as Milo lounged past,and it sprang, catlike, at the unsuspecting man's back.
Into the path of light it leaped. In the same atom of time,Gavin Brice shouted aloud in sharp warning, and dashed forward,the collie at his side.
But he was fifty feet away. And his shout served only to makeStandish halt, staring about him.
It was then that the creature from the shrubbery made hisspring. He struck venomously at Standish, from behind. AndGavin could see, in the striking hand, a glitter of steel.
Standish--warned perhaps by sound, perhaps by instinct--wheeledhalf-way around. Thus the knifeblow missed its mark betweenhis shoulder-blades. Not the blade, but the fist whichgripped it, smote full on Standish's shoulder. The deflectedpoint merely shore the white coat from neck to waist.
There was no scope to strike again. And the assailantcontented himself with passing his free arm garrotingly aroundStandish's neck, from behind, and leaping upward, bringing hisknees into the small of the victim's back.
Here evidently was no amateur slayer. For, even as theknife-thrust missed its mark, he had resorted to the secondruse, and before Standish could turn around far enough toavert it.
Down went the big man, under the strangle-hold and knee-purchase.With a crash that knocked the breath out of him and dazed him, helanded on his back, his head smiting the sward with a resoundingthwack.
His adversary, once more, wasted not a jot of time. AsStandish struck ground, the man was upon him, knife againaloft, poised above the helpless Milo's throat.
And it was then that Gavin Brice's flying feet brought him tothe scene.
As he ran he had heard a door open. And he knew his warningshout had reached the ears of some one in the house,--perhapsof Claire. But he had no time nor thought for anything, justthen, except the stark need of reaching Milo Standish beforethe knife could strike.
He launched himself, after the fashion of a football tackle,straight for the descending arm. And, for a few seconds allthree men rolled and wallowed and fought in a jumble of flyingarms and legs and heads.
Brice had been lucky enough or dextrous enough to catch theknife-wielder's wrist and to wrench it far to one side, as itwhizzed downward. With his other hand he had groped for theslayer's throat.
Then, he found himself attacked with a maniac fury by the manwhose murderous purpose he had thwarted. Still gripping theknife-wrist, he was sore put to it to fend off an avalanche ofblows from the other arm and of kicks from both of theassailant's deftly plied feet.
Nor was his task made the easier by the fact that MiloStandish had recovered from the momentary daze, and wasslugging impartially at both the men who rolled and tossed ontop of him.
This, for a short but excessively busy space of moments.Then, wriggling free of Milo's impeding and struggling bulk,Brice gained the throat-hold he sought. Still holding to theground the wrist of the knifehand, he dug his supple fingersdeep into the man's throat, disregarding such blows and kicksas he could not ward off.
There was science in his ferocious onslaught. And his skilledfingers had found the windpipe and the carotid artery as well.With such force as Brice was able to exert, the other's breathwas shut off, while he was all but paralyzed by the diggingpressure into his carotid.
Such a grip is well understood by Japanese athletes, thoughits possibilities and method are unknown to the averageOccidental. Rightly applied, it is irresistible. Carried toits conclusion, it spells sudden and agonizing death to itsvictim.
And Gavin Brice was carrying it to the conclusion, with allthe sinew and science of his trained arms.
The knifer's strength was gorilla-like. But that strength, atevery second, was rendered more and more futile. The man musthave realized it. For, all at once, he ceased his battery ofkicks and blows, and struggled frantically to tear free.
Each plunging motion merely intensified the pain and power ofthe relentless throat-grip that pinioned him. And, stranglingand panic-struck, he became wilder in his fruitless efforts towrench loose. Then, deprived of breath and with hisnerve-centers shaken, he lost the power to strive.
It was the time for which Gavin had waited. With perfectease, now, he twisted the knife from the failing grasp, and,with his left hand, he reinforced the throat-grip of hisright. As he did so, he got his legs under him and arose,dragging upward with him the all but senseless body of hisgarroted foe.
It had been a pretty bit of work, from the start, and one uponwhich his monkey-faced Japanese jui-jutsuinstructor would have lavished a grunt of approval.
He had conquered an armed and muscular enemy by his knowledgeof anatomy and by applying the simple grip he had learned.And now, the heaving half-dead murderer was at his mercy.
Gavin swung the feebly twitching body out, more fully into thestreak of light from the house, noting, subconsciously thatthe light ray was twice as broad as before, by reason of thedoor's standing open.
But, before he could concentrate his gaze on the man he held,he saw several million other things. And all the severalmillion were multi-hued stars and bursting bombs.
The entire universe seemed to have exploded and to have chosenthe inside of his brain as the site for such annoyingpyrotechnics. Dully he was aware that his hands wereloosening their death-grip and that his arms were falling tohis sides. Also, that his knees had turned to hot tallow andwere crumbling, under him.
None of these amazing phenomena struck him as at allinteresting. Indeed, nothing struck him as worth noting. Noteven the display of myriad shooting stars. It all seemedquite natural, and it all lasted for the merest breath oftime.
Through the universe of varicolored lights and explosions, hewas aware of a woman's cry. And, somehow, this pierced themist of his senses, and found its way to his heart. But onlyfor an instant.
Then, instead of tumbling to earth, he felt himself sinkingdown, uncountable miles, through a cool darkness. The darkwas comforting, after all that bothersome display of lights.
And, while he was still falling, he drifted into a dead sleep.
Black Caesar's Clan : A Florida Mystery Story Page 3
