Again the shovel was upraised, this time over Nick’s own head.
The detective forgot his aching side. Grantley’s knees were gripping his legs, as they might have gripped the side of a horse, but the vivisectionist had been compelled to use both hands to swing the shovel upward.
With surprising ease, Nick flung the upper part of his body around until his head and shoulders were close to Grantley’s left knee.
As he did so, the ponderous weapon descended. Its target had shifted, however, and the shovel rang against the concrete floor with a force that stung Grantley’s hands.
At the same instant the detective’s arms reached up and shot around his waist—and the darkness fled.
The struggle had been taking place directly between Patsy and the gas jet, with the result that Nick’s assistant had halted uncertainly and peered forward for a few seconds. He did not hesitate long, though, for it suddenly occurred to him that his flash lamp had probably been left undisturbed, as the burglar tools had been.
He was right, and it was the work of an instant only to find the electric torch and turn its rays upon the combatants. His first glance reassured him, for he saw that his chief had managed to twist himself in a position which made it impossible for Grantley to use the shovel successfully.
Instinctively Patsy’s eyes traveled from them to the fallen German. The latter was seemingly as unconscious as ever.
“Shall I finish him, chief?” the young detective asked eagerly, turning back again.
He knew that Nick had been knocked out pretty thoroughly, and saw no good reason for prolonging the fight; as a matter of fact, however, he had little hope that Nick would allow him to interfere.