the part of his anatomy to first touch the floor was his head. The
floor was of oak, and the impact gave forth a crash like the smash of a
base-ball bat, when it drives the ball to centre field. The man did not
move. He did not even groan. In his relaxed fingers the revolver lay,
within reach of Lathrop's hand. He fell upon it and, still on his knees,
pointed it at the sergeant.

"You're MY prisoner, now!" he shouted cheerfully. "Hands up!"

The man raised his arms slowly, as if he were lifting heavy dumb-bells.

"The lady called for help," he said. "I came to help her."

"No! No!" protested the girl. "He did NOT help me! He said he would
choke me if I didn't--"

"He said he would--what!" bellowed Lathrop. He leaped to his feet, and
sent the gun spinning through the window. He stepped toward the man
gingerly, on the balls of his feet, like one walking on ice. The man
seemed to know what that form of approach threatened, for he threw his
arms into a position of defence.

"You bully!" whispered Lathrop. "You coward! You choke women, do you?"

He shifted from one foot to the other, his body balancing forward,
his arms swinging limply in front of him. With his eyes, he seemed to
undress the man, as though choosing a place to strike.

"I made the same mistake you did," he taunted. "I should have killed you
first. Now I am going to do it!"