Had we been followed here? Was it a trap? Was Rascon ready to risk anything rather than to have those reports pass into unfriendly hands?
The moment the light winked out, Kennedy had swung on the burly waiter and had sprung back toward us as we fought our way toward where we had last seen him. I did not know whether my second assailant was one of the two strangers at the other table or not. Over and over we rolled, knocking down tables and chairs, the air torrid with oaths from all sides.
What had become of Kennedy and Brooks I didn't know. I am sure that I would have mastered the situation in my own private little fight if, at that moment, there had not been the crash of glass from another door, followed by a shrill cry.
"The bulls!" I heard some harsh voice growl.
It seemed as if new men were coming from all directions. My man squirmed out from my grasp and before I knew it, in the darkness, I found myself in the anomalous position of being held firmly by the collar by a policeman, while all about I could hear the impact of billies on crass skulls, resounding in a manner that was awe-inspiring. My own captor needed only a word to bring his own club down on my head, and, needless to say, I was not going to say that word.
An instant later some one found a wall light and turned it on. In the half-light, I could hear a laugh behind me. I turned.
It was Doyle!
"How did you come here?" I gasped, breathlessly, as Doyle released my collar and I stretched my neck to remove the kinks, in so doing catching sight of Kennedy standing over the unconscious form of the waiter in the doorway as he held the redoubtable No. 6 by the collar.
"Kennedy thought it was a trap—tipped me off," laughed Doyle, swinging his club as he shouted orders to his men to dive into command of each door or window exit.
"Did you locate Rascon?" panted Kennedy, twisting just a bit tighter the collar of the operative whom he was holding.