Now, as the giant, boring in against that relentless attack, faltered, mouth open, labored breath sucked inward through clenched teeth, Annister stepped backward, hands dropping at his sides.
Ellison, almost out, stood, weaving on his feet, fronting his adversary, a queer look of surprise in his face, and a something more. Annister, strangely enough, as has been mentioned, had, in spite of his encounter with Ellison in the smoker, conceived something for the man that had been close to liking. Somehow, rough as the man was; crooked, by all the signs; the tool of Rook and of his minions, he had the blue eye of a fighter—the straight, level look of a man who, though an enemy, would yet fight fair.
Annister, breathing heavily, thrust out his hand.
“A draw, ha?” he said. “Well—suppose we let it go at that.”
For a moment Ellison appeared to hesitate; there came again the queer look in his eyes, as of surprise, wonder, and a something more. There came a grating curse from Lunn; a sudden movement from the onlookers roundabout.
Ellison’s great paw closed on the extended hand with a grip of iron, as Rook’s voice rose, strident, under the lights:
“Bull—are you crazy? This man—he’s just—a dam’ dick!”
CHAPTER TEN
“IN THE NAME OF THE LAW!”
It was out. Rook, his hand in a lightning stab for Annister’s coat, turned over the lapel, holding it forward for all to see.
On it was a small gold badge—the symbol of the Secret Service. The secret was a secret no longer.