wasted in the peaceful pursuit of
art.

For he was still a boy at heart. All creative minds retain something
of those care-free, irresponsible years as long as the creative talent
lasts. As it fails, worldly caution creeps in like a thief in the
night, to steal the spontaneous pleasures of the past and leave in
their places only the old galoshes of prudence and the finger-prints
of dull routine.

Barres stood by the open door of the wash-room, listening. The
corridor which passed it led on into another corridor running at right
angles. This was the Family Entrance.

Now, as he waited there, he heard the street door open, and instantly
the deadened shock of a rush and struggle.

As he started toward the Family Entrance, straining his ears for the
expected summons, a man in flight turned the corner into his corridor
so abruptly that he had him by the throat even before he recognised in
him the man with the thick eye-glasses who had hit him between the
eyes with a pistol--the "Watcher" of Dragon Court!

With a swift sigh of gratitude to Chance, Barres folded the fleeing
Watcher to his bosom and began the business he had to transact with
him--an account too long overdue.

The Watcher fought like a wildcat, but in silence--fought madly, using
both fists, feet, baring his teeth, too, with frantic attempts to use
them. But Barres gave him no opportunity to kick, bite, or to pull out
any weapon; he battered the Watcher right and left, swinging on him
like lightning, and his blows drummed on him like the tattoo of fists
on a punching bag until one stinging crack sent the Watcher's head
snapping back with a jerk, and a terrific jolt knocked him as clean
and as flat as a dead carp.

There were papers in his coat, also a knuckle-duster, a big
clasp-knife, and an automatic pistol. And Barres took them all,
stuffed them into his own pockets, and, dragging his still dormant but
twitching victim by the collar, as a cat proudly lugs a heavy rat, he
started for the Family Entrance, where Donnybrook had now broken
loose.

But the silence of the terrific struggle in that narrow entry, the
absence of all yelling, was significant. No Irish whoops, no Teutonic
din of combat shattered the stillness of that dim corridor--only the
deadened sounds of blows and shuffling of frantic feet. It was very
evident that nobody involved desired to be interrupted by the police,
or call attention to the location of the battle field.

Renoux, Sou