But he got no further.
As he bent down, Joe’s muscular hands darted out and clutched him by the throat. The yell he started to give was stifled at its birth. In a moment Joe was on top of him with his knee on his chest.
Moriarty struggled as hard as he could, but his liquor-soaked frame speedily collapsed before Joe’s onslaught, and in a moment he lay limp and senseless. Then Joe flung him aside and rose to his feet.
He rubbed his legs vigorously to restore the circulation until he felt the strength coming back into them.
There was but one door leading from the room. Joe went to it on tiptoe. He could still hear the murmur of voices. He flung the door open suddenly and burst into the adjoining room.
Fleming and Connelly sprang to their feet in consternation. With a powerful uppercut, Joe sent Fleming crashing to the floor. Connelly retreated and Joe had no time to bother with him.
He flung himself down the stairs and out into the street. Half a block away he saw a taxicab coming toward him. He rushed toward it.
“To the South Station!” he gasped. “Quick! Quick! Quick!”
In an amazingly short time, the taxicab, running at high speed, landed him at the depot. Joe saw by the station clock that it was a quarter to nine.