of being mussed up a bit himself, or having certain of his cherished
plans interfered with by being dragged before a "Provo" as witness or
participant.

He was counting in a half-audible whisper, "Forty-one, forty-two,
forty-three." It was a way he had when something big was about to
happen. The hand of the slender man was at the second button on the
other's rough coat when Johnny reached fifty. At sixty it had come to
the top button. At sixty-five his long finger-tips were doubling in for
the fatal, vice-like grip. Noiselessly, Johnny laid the knife on a cross
bar of the door. Knives were too deadly. Johnny's "wallop" was quite
enough; more than enough, as the slender one might learn to his sorrow.

But before Johnny could move a convulsion shot through the prostrate
fighter. He was again struggling wildly. At the same instant, Johnny
heard shuffling footsteps approaching around the corner. He was sure he
did not mistake the tread of Japanese military police who were guarding
that section of the city. For a moment he studied the probabilities of
the short one's power of endurance, then, deciding it sufficient to last
until the police arrived, he gripped the knife behind his back and
darted toward an opposite corner where was an alley offering safety.
There were very definite reasons why Johnny did not wish to figure even
as a witness in any case in Vladivostok that night.

In a doorway off the alley, he paused, listening for sounds of increased
tumult. They came quickly enough. There was a renewed struggle, a grunt,
a groan; then the scuffling ceased.

Suddenly, a figure darted down the alley. Johnny caught a clear view of
the man's face. The fugitive was the shorter man with broad shoulders