With difficulty--he only had one hand disengaged--he evolved a tin canister from his jacket pocket.
'Bite her to the bone! Let her have the lot!'
From the canister the Flyman managed to take a cloth--a cloth which was soaked with some peculiar-smelling fluid. This he jammed against the lady's face, even cramming it between her lips. She writhed and twisted, then lay still.
As the Flyman got up, he examined the hand which she had marked with her teeth.
'She takes a bit of doing. I shouldn't like to have to tackle her single-handed.'
Mr Burton smiled. His clothes were a little rumpled. As he rose he arranged his tie.
'Nice wife she'd make! What do you think?'
Mr Cox had occupied his time in picking up the revolver of which the lady had been relieved. He seemed genuinely concerned.
'You know, Burton, I tell you again I didn't come here for this sort of thing. I wouldn't have had this happen not--not for a good deal. I shouldn't be surprised if we get into trouble for this.'
'My dear Cox, we should have got into trouble anyhow. We may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. I'm going for the gloves.'