Mary Aikens' eyes dilated. She came swiftly to the Professor.
"Jim Cathers? What do you mean?"
The Professor shifted his eyes to hers—and Cockney sprang forward. The Professor threw up his arms but missed, and Cockney's right hand wound round his neck and hooked beneath his shoulder. The shock and strain almost dislocated the Professor's neck, and his eyes closed, his legs shook. He braced against the wave of dizziness, but he was powerless against such a hold of such a powerful maniac. There was nothing now but submission or a broken neck. Either meant death. Burning waves of agony and dull insensibility chased each other through his head.
Cockney shouted derisively.
"Now—now!"
The Professor's arms fell limply away, his knees bent. A burst of agony parted his swollen lips.
Mary Aikens saw only certain death to one of them—and the other a murderer—if she did not act quickly. She seized a Chinese vase from the piano beside her and, closing her eyes, brought it down with all her might on her husband's head. Dimly she heard staggering feet, the thud of a body, and then she fell unconscious.
CHAPTER XXV
COCKNEY'S STORY
Her first impression was of a warm, tender hand holding a cold cloth to her temples. She reached up and seized it; but it was jerked from her grasp. She opened her eyes and looked into Professor Bulkeley's face bending over her. Instantly he rose to his feet.