“Mr. Brenchfield,” she cried in sudden anger, “what do you mean? You––you have been watching. I didn’t think you were a spy, although after all, possibly I did, for I intentionally held back the man you are after.”
Brenchfield ignored her remark and pointed with his finger at the fugitive, who came forward, his eyes staring as if he were seeing an apparition.
“Great God,––you!” exclaimed the young man. Then with a catching sound in his throat, he sprang at the burly, well-fed man before him.
Brenchfield was taken completely by surprise. He staggered against the side of the door, as thin claw-like fingers found his throat and tried to stop the vital air. The fingers closed on his windpipe too tightly for comfort.
Eileen cried out and tried to go between, but she was thrust aside.
The men swayed together, then Brenchfield’s hands went up, catching the other by the wrists in a firm hold. There was a momentary struggle, the runaway’s grip was broken and he was flung to the floor.
Brenchfield turned to Eileen.
“Miss Pederstone, have you gone crazy trying to hide this man? Don’t you know he is a runaway; a dangerous convict? The police––blind fools––didn’t tumble to your nervousness, but I caught on. I knew you had him hidden in the wood-box.”
The hunted man rose slowly from the floor and staggered forward, gasping for breath. He gave Brenchfield a look of loathing.