Backward went Nick’s straining right arm, inward turned the hard muzzle of the weapon. Grantley was twisting the automatic now, hoping to loosen the detective’s grasp all the quicker.
Something was due in a few moments, and it promised to be a tragedy for the detective.
Then, to cap the climax, Willard circled about the two combatants, like a hawk ready to swoop down on its prey, and, seeing Nick’s head protruding from under Grantley’s left arm, hauled off and let drive with the chair.
The surgeon received part of the blow, but Nick’s head stopped enough of it to end the strange tussle.
The detective crumpled up, but Grantley held him from the floor and wrested the weapon from the nerveless fingers. He withdrew it from Nick’s pocket and put it to the detective’s left breast, determined to end it all, without fail.
It was at that supreme moment that Chick charged up and took a hand.
Nick’s assistant reached Willard first. The latter’s back was toward him, and he was just in the act of drawing back the chair. Chick’s clubbed weapon descended on his head without warning, and Willard pitched forward on his face.
It was not until then that Chick saw the automatic at his chief’s breast. There was no time to reach Grantley—not a second to waste.
The young detective did what Nick and his men seldom allowed themselves to do—he turned his automatic around again and shot to kill.
Nick’s own life depended upon it, and there was nothing, else to do.