The man we noticed slackened his pace, feeling that he was "on his own
ground." It was very dark and gusts of rain lashed the walls.

"Good arternoon, La Goualeuse (Sweet-Throat)" said he to one of a group
of girls sheltering under a projecting window. "You're the very girl to
stand some brandy."

"I'm out of money, Slasher," said the girl trembling; for the man was
the terror of the neighbourhood.

He grasped her arm, but she wrenched herself loose and fled down a dark
alley, pursued by the ruffian.

"I'll have you," he exclaimed after a few seconds as he seized in his
powerful hand one altogether as soft and slight.

"You shall dance for it," a masculine voice broke in, and under the soft
delicate skin of the hand the Slasher felt himself grasped by muscles of
iron. For some seconds nothing was heard save the sounds of a deadly
strife.

The struggle was short, for the ruffian, although of athletic make and
of first rate ability in rough and tumble fights, found he had met his
master; he measured his length on the ground.

Burning with rage the Slasher returned to the charge, whereupon the
defender of La Goualeuse showered upon the cut-throat's head a
succession of blows so weighty and crushing and so completely out of the
French mode of fighting that the Slasher was mentally as well as bodily