The words were followed by the noise of a struggle in the private office.
A heavy chair was overturned, and then the second voice cried, “Help!”
Every one of the clerks dropped his pen and started for the little door marked “Private,” but before one could reach it the door flew open with a bang, and a big man, wild-eyed and disheveled, appeared, struggling to shake off the hold of a smaller man with a sharp cast of countenance, who had a firm grip on his right arm, in the hand of which was grasped a cocked revolver.
“I tell you I will do it!” cried the large man, in frenzied tones, making a violent effort to free himself.
He swung Hartz, who was the head of the firm that occupied the offices, around as if he had been a feather, flooring three of the clerks, who went down like so many cornstalks before the sweep of the old-time scythe.
And Hartz, losing his grip, went on top of them.
The big man, then rushing clear of the group, raised the revolver to his head.
But Jack, who had jumped to his feet at the commencement of the rumpus, divining his intention, cleared the rail at a bound and grabbed his arm just as he pulled the trigger.
The sharp explosion mingled with the splintering of glass as the bullet grazed the would-be suicide’s temple and crashed through the window pane fronting on Exchange Place.
Partly stunned, the desperate man staggered forward two or three feet and then sank down, while Jack succeeded in wrenching the pistol from his relaxed fingers.