With a savage snarl, Tremaine tore off his coat.
His wife sprang forward in terrified appeal.
“Harry!”
He flung her off brutally.
“Stand out of this!” he said. “This is a man’s fight! I’ll deal with you afterward!”
An atmosphere of primitive passion filled the room. She cowered away, watching the rivals with fascinated eyes, like a squaw for whom two braves unsheath their knives. Both were big, powerful men. Satterthwaite made no movement while Tremaine flung aside his coat and rolled up his shirt-sleeves—but his eyes were warily alert and his fists clenched massively at the end of the arms held loosely ready for sudden action.
With a savage bellow of maddened hatred, Tremaine rushed at him blindly. Satterthwaite’s right arm jerked up to guard—and like lightning his left fist shot out from the shoulder, crashed full between his adversary’s eyes. Tremaine went over backward, arms in the air, his head striking the table with an impact that shattered glass and crockery, rolled over to the floor. He lay motionless.
His wife had darted to his side, bent over him.
“Oh, Jack!” she cried, looking up to the victor. “You haven’t killed him?”
Satterthwaite bent over him also.