man can play was undiminished in him. The wounds he
had received left him all unconcerned. In the thrill of the moment he
had no time for them. The desire to kill was strong, and he knew he
could already count two victims.

But the general in him was foremost, even in the excitement of battle.
The number of his opponents, their next move. These things concerned
him seriously.

He searched the line of light with eager eyes. He listened to the
sound of movement. These things were all he had to rely on, and on
their accurate reading depended his chances of victory or defeat, with
its certainty of swift death.

In two places there ware still definite breaks in the line. He knew he
had accounted for two of the enemy. Originally a volley of six shots
had come at him. There were two unaccounted for. Where were these?
They were not standing.

He looked for no depths of subtlety in the methods of these men. He
understood their ruffianism too well. Therefore the sound of movement
that reached him suggested the obvious result of their first failure.
It was the presage of an attack at close quarters.

He listened intently. The sounds were of shuffling bodies, moving
uncertainly, possibly fearful of contact with obstruction which might
betray them. And he calculated they were approaching low down along
the side walls, thus hoping to offer the least target possible. If
they reached him the chances would be all against him. They must not
reach him. His decision was promptly taken.

He raised one of Sikkem's guns. It was heavy, and a sense of pleasure
filled him as he felt the enormous bore of the muzzle with one finger.
Stealthily he raised himself to his full height behind his barrier. He
leveled his gun at a spot just below the right hand window, where the
wall rose up out of the floor. There was no obstacle intervening.

A moment later the crack of the gun burst through the silence. Then,
on the instant, he flung himself prone across the table. His answer
came like lightning. Four shots. And three of them harmlessly tore
their way into the bowels of the woodwork. The fourth had come from
the direction in which he had aimed.

A fierce spasm of pain through his chest blinded him mentally and
physically for the moment. But, by an almost superhuman effort, he
recovered himself. He knew he was hit, and hit badly. Something
seemed to have broken inside him, just under his left armpit.

He forced hi