He was weak with pain. He thought his left ankle might be broken, and certainly his left leg seemed to have severed connection with his body from the knee downwards. Unless Essenden weakened soon. Well, there would be plenty of opening for other candidates for the distinction of being the two most unpopular plagues inflicted upon Scotland Yard. The Saint held on desperately, feeling his strength ebbing with every second of that nightmare struggle; but Essenden, a man possessed, seemed to be breaking every known law of human endurance. He fought on, when anyone else should have been unconscious.
And then one of his flailing fists caught Simon in the face.
It was not for the first time in that fight. But this time it so happened that Simon was on his back, his head lifted a bare inch from the floor. And the blow dashed the Saint's head with sickening force against the stone.
A wave of spangled blackness swept over his vision, and all the remaining strength went out of him. He felt his fingers torn easily away from Essenden's throat, and heard Essenden draw breath in one long, quavering sob. The Saint was rolled away like a child.
As his sight cleared, he saw Essenden crawling away out of his reach.
He lay still, his chest heaving, utterly done in, and watched Essenden scramble to his feet at a safe distance.
"Beaten you — again… And you won't — get — another chance!"
Essenden gasped out the words in a rasping clamour of triumph. He reeled towards Jill Trelawney, one hand caressing his larynx jerkily, and stood swaying before her with his face contorted.
"You too, my beauty! You don't know what a lot of trouble you've given me. You ought to pay for my trouble. I meant to leave you here and go back at once. But there's plenty of time before the tide comes up—"
"You fool! D'you think you can get away with this?"