his lips like bullets from a gun.

The words shattered the tableau. On their echo Maitland sprang and
fastened his fingers around the other's throat. Carried off his
feet by the sheer ferocity of the assault, Anisty gave ground a
little. For an instant they were swaying back and forth, with
advantage to neither. Then the burglar's collar slipped and
somehow tore from its stud, giving Maitland's hands freer play.
His grasp tightened about the man's gullet; he shook him
mercilessly. Anisty staggered, gasping, reeled, struck Maitland
once or twice upon the chest,--feeble, weightless elbow-jabs that
went for nothing, then concentrated his energies in a vain attempt
to wrench the hands from his throat. Reeling, tearing at
Maitland's wrists, face empurpling, eyes staring in agony, he
stumbled. Mercilessly Maitland forced him to his knees and bullied
him across the floor toward the nearest lounge--with premeditated
design; finally succeeding in throwing him flat; and knelt upon
his chest, retaining his grip but refraining from throttling him.

As it was, all strength and thought of resistance had been choked
out of Anisty. He lay at length, gasping painfully.

Maitland glanced over his shoulders and saw the girl moving
forward, apparently making for the switch.

"No!" he cried, peremptory. "Don't turn off the light--please!"

"But--" she doubted.

"Let me have those curtain cords, if you please," he requested