"Had 'nough?" demanded Seymour. "Ready to tell the girl the truth?"
For answer, he felt the press of steel against his ribs. He realized in a flash that the factor had drawn a gun from some handy concealment and that his seconds probably were numbered unless he rolled instantly out of range.
Roll he did just as the pistol growled.
The bullet grazed a button from his official tunic, then thudded into the plasterboard that covered the log wall. Next second, with a bone-breaking wrench, he twisted the weapon from the trickster's fingers. Scrambling to his feet, he threw down upon his opponent, meaning to cover him, just as the front door of the store was thrown open.
With the rush of icy air from without came a shrill feminine cry more startling than any previous happening of the contest.
"Don't shoot!" was the command that followed. "Don't you dare shoot, you uniformed brute!"
Seymour turned to see Moira glaring at him from behind an automatic pistol of her own, a blue-black little gun that was held as steady as a pointed finger. The sky-pilot up at Mission House was a pacifist, the sergeant knew. Doubtless he had told the girl the direction his anger had taken him.
"At last I believe," the girl went on, passion in her voice, but not the slightest waver in her aim. "Well chosen was the name I gave you, Sergeant Scarlet!"
The stress she gave her nickname for him startled Seymour. "Just what do you mean, Moira?" he asked, keeping one eye upon the prone factor who seemed as startled by the intrusion as himself.
"That I've found the murderer of my brother and don't propose to see him claim another victim."