The prospect of a fight restored O’Sheill’s spirits. Every line of his evil face was a black menace to Friedrich Wilhelm outside.
“Don’t use your revolver,” Anthony Trent cautioned.
“Why?” O’Sheill whispered.
“We can’t stand police investigation,” said the other. “Get ready now I’m going to open the door.”
When he flung it open Williams stepped quickly in. O’Sheill maddened at the very thought that any one imperiled his money, could only see, in the dim light, an enemy. The first blow he struck landed fair and square on the Prussian nose. On his part Williams supposed the attack a premeditated one. O’Sheill was playing him false. The pain of the blow awoke his own hot temper and made him killing mad. He sought to get his strong arms about the Sinn Feiner’s throat.
It was while they thrashed about on the floor that Anthony Trent made his escape. He closed the door of the room carefully and locked it from the outside. Then he unscrewed the electric bulb that lit the hall. None saw him pass into the street. It was one of his triumphant nights.
Next morning at breakfast he found Mrs. Kinney much interested in the city’s police news as set forth in the papers.
He was singularly cheerful.
“What is it?” he demanded. “Some very dreadful crime?”
“A double murder,” she told him, “and the police don’t seem to be able to figure it out at all.”