Two shots reverberated through the little room. Frank Jarnow sprawled across the table, one hand firmly clutching the sheet of paper, the other extended against Henry Windsor’s shoulder. Windsor, half rising, nearly toppled to the table.
The light clicked out.
“Frank,” mumbled Henry Windsor. “Speak to me, Frank!”
Befuddled though he was, he fancied he heard Frank Jarnow moving by the table. He reached out to steady himself and his hand rested on Jarnow’s neck.
Groping along the table, Henry Windsor touched metal, and his fingers clutched the handle of a revolver.
* * *
There was a crash at the door. The wooden barrier gave slightly; excited voices were shouting outside. Henry Windsor became suddenly aroused.
“Good old Frank,” he said. “Shot good old Frank. I’ll stop them!”
The door fell. A hand pressed the wall switch that controlled the ceiling light.
In the midst of the illumination, Henry Windsor faced the doorway and raised the revolver. But before he could press the trigger, a man leaped forward and wrested the gun from his hand. Windsor was overpowered by three of the intruders.