Gregory Manning stood between Stutsman and Craven. There had been no foggy forerunner of his appearance. He had just snapped out of empty air.
Stutsman stared at him, his eyes widening, but the gun remained steady in his hand.
"Look out, Craven,” warned Greg. “He's going to fire and it will go right through me and hit you."
There was the thump of a falling body as Craven hurled himself out of his chair, hit the floor and rolled. Stutsman's gun vomited flame. The spouting flame passed through Greg's image, blasted against the chair in which Craven had sat, fused it until it fell in on itself.
"Russ,” said Greg quietly, “Disarm this fellow before he hurts somebody."
An unseen force reached out and twisted the gun from Stutsman's hand, flung it to one side. Swiftly Stutsman's hands were forced behind his back and held there by invisible bonds.
Stutsman cried out, tried to struggle, but he was unable to move. It was as if giant hands had gripped him, were holding him in a viselike clutch.
"Thanks, Manning,” said Craven, getting up off the floor. “The fool would have shot this time. He's threatened it for days. He has been developing a homicidal mania."
"We don't need to worry about him now,” declared Greg. He turned around to face Craven. “Where's Chambers?"
"Stutsman locked him up,” said Craven. “I imagine he has the key in his pocket. Locked him up in the stateroom. Chambers jumped him and tried to take the gun away from him and Stutsman laid him out, hit him over the head. He kept Chambers locked up after that. Hasn't allowed anyone to go near the room. Hasn't even given him food and water. That was three days ago."