“Just into the hall,” I said. “I'm going to light the gas and watch the battle from a safe distance.”
Hawkins clutched his chair and stared at me like a man in a nightmare. His expression reminded me of the day when, as a boy on the farm, I took the hatchet and started out to kill my first chicken. I felt just as Hawkins looked that evening in the dark doorway of the bedroom.
“D'ye suppose it'll kill him?” he choked. “Griggs, do you think——”
A long rip resounded from the darkness. A triumphant shout followed.
Hawkins turned swiftly, raised his chair, and darted toward the man in the bag.
There was a crash, a shout, a dull blow, and a heavy fall—and just then I managed to light the gas.
Literally, I caught my breath and rubbed my eyes. For a few seconds the scene dumfounded me past action; but shortly I hurried into the apartment and struck another light.
Hawkins was stretched upon the floor groaning. His entire face seemed to have suffered violent impact with some unyielding body, and both hands covered his nose, from which the life-blood flowed freely.
And across the room, sitting against the wall, his large person decorated by sundry steel hoops and shreds of canvas, sat—William, the Hawkins' butler, staring dazedly into space!
Between them lay the chair.