He threw his hands above his shoulders and grasped the man round the neck—then—slowly—shakily—his head swimming and the world a huge teetotum—he rose upon his knees. Bent well forward, he rose to his feet. The other choked, swore, struck useless blows, but hung limply, helpless, in that bear-like, awful grip.
At the exact moment—no second too soon, no second too late—down went Harborne's right hand to the wriggling, kicking, right foot of the man upon whom he had secured that dreadful hold. A bend forward—a turn of the hip—and his man fell crashing to the floor.
"That's called the Cornish grip!" panted the detective, dropping all his heaviness upon the recumbent form.
Click! Click!
The handcuffed man wriggled into a sitting posture.
"You goddarned son of a skunk!" he gurgled—and stopped short—sat, white-faced, manacled, looking up at his captor.
"Jumpin' Jenkins!" he whispered—"it's that plug-headed guy, Harborne!"
"Alden!" cried Harborne. "Alden! What the——!"
"Same to you!" snarled the Agency man. "Call yourself a detective! I reckon you'd make a better show as a coal-heaver!"
When conversation—if not civil conversation, at least conversation which did not wholly consist in mutual insult—became possible, the two in that silent hall compared notes.