“Let up, Rivers!” I cried, sternly; “what do you mean?”
He glared at me, not sensing what I said, and then, Rodman, breaking loose, came at him madly, Rivers slithered out of my clutch and caught the other a smashing blow on the ear. This, landing just as Rodman was off his balance from his break-away from Wise, spun him around and sent him down with a crash which knocked all the fight out of him, and he made but a half-hearted attempt to rise.
Satisfied, Rivers turned to me, and then, with a half-apologetic glance at Olive, murmured: “Sorry! Couldn’t help it, Miss Raynor. Brute!”
The last was addressed to his fallen foe, and was met by a vindictive glance, but no other retort.
Rodman, however, was pulling himself together and we were of one mind as to our next procedure, which was to get Olive Raynor away from that house.
“Beat it,” Wise decreed; “you’re a good one, Mr. Rivers! My hat’s off to you. Now, if you’re fit, and you look it, will you and Mr. Brice take Miss Raynor home, and I’ll stay here and clear up this little disturbance. Hop along with them, Ziz; I’ll join you all at the house as soon as I can.”
The faithful taxi was waiting, and Rivers and I put the two girls in, and followed them. Rivers was very quiet and seemed preoccupied. He looked not at all like a conqueror, and I guessed that the fight had stirred some chord of remembrance, and he was now struggling with his lost memory. In silence we went most of the way home.
Before we reached the house, however, he shook off his reverie with an impatient gesture that said, as clearly as words could have done, that he had failed to catch the elusive thread that bound him to the past and that he had returned to the present.
Olive saw it, too, and putting out her hand, said, frankly:
“I owe you deep gratitude, Mr. Rivers. I suppose I was in no real danger, with you men there, but I must confess I was glad to have that wretch punished.”