How I loved him! And yet we had fought a thousand times over just
such provocation. Over his shoulders I could see the still open
door that led into the street. A heavy form was looming through
the opening; out of the corner of my eye I caught the lines of the
form stepping out of the shadows--it crossed the room and stood
beside Hobart Fenton. It was Rhamda Avec!

I leaped. The fury of a thousand conflicts--and the exultation.
For the glory of such moments it is well worth dying. One minute
flying through the air--the old catapult tackle--and the next a
crashing of bone and sinew. We rolled over, head on, and across
the floor. Curses and execrations; the deep bass voice of Hobart:

"Hold him, Harry! Hold him! That's the way! Hold him! Hold him!"

We went crashing about the room. He was the slipperiest thing I
had ever laid hold of. But he was bone--bone and sinew; he was a
man! I remember the wild thrill of exultation at the discovery. It
was battle! And death! The table went over, we went spinning
against the wall, a crash of falling bookcases, books and broken
glass, a scurry and a flying heap of legs and arms. He was
wonderfully strong and active, like a panther. Each time I held
him he would twist out like a cat, straighten, and throw me out of
hold. I clung on, fighting, striving for a grip, working for the
throat. He was a man--a man! I remembered that he must never get
away. He must account for Watson.

In the first rush I was a madman. The mere force of my onslaught
had borne him down. But in a moment he had recovered and was
fighting systematically. As much as he could he kept over on one