Mr. Allen was silent a moment. "The killing of a man who enters your house is justified by law," he warned grimly.
"Well—why don't you shoot?"
"Are you going to call up?"
"So then—you're afraid to shoot!" taunted David.
Mr. Allen remained silent. He gazed at David over the pistol barrel, and David gazed back at the pistol and at Mr. Allen. Their wills had locked horns, stood braced.
"I'm getting very tired," said David, throwing a leg over a corner of the table. "If you don't shoot soon I'll have to go."
At this instant David saw in the doorway behind Mr. Allen the small figure of Kate Morgan. In her right hand there shone a little pistol, in her left she held a heavy walking-stick.
Mr. Allen broke his silence. "If you make a move toward your pocket while I cross the floor, it'll be your last move."
David's will had conquered, but his exultation did not speak. He was watching Kate Morgan, fascinated. Her pistol rose, then fell, and the pistol and walking-stick exchanged hands. Mr. Allen took the first step toward the telephone. The stick came up, whizzed down upon Mr. Allen's pistol hand. The weapon went flying upon the rug, and Mr. Allen let out a sharp cry and started to whirl around. As the stick struck flesh David sprang forward, and with the skill of his old boxing-days, with all his strength and weight focussed in the blow, he drove his fist against Mr. Allen's unguarded chin. Mr. Allen fell limply upon the deep carpet.
"Come on! Out of here!" cried David, seizing Kate's arm.