ack to his brain, when the silence of the
room seemed to explode into a white sting, a puff of noise that felt
like a whip lash curling about Blake's leg. It seemed to roll off in a
shifting and drifting cloud of smoke.

It so amazed Blake that he fell back against the wall, trying to
comprehend it, to decipher the source and meaning of it all. He was
still huddled back against the wall when a second surprise came to him.
It was the discovery that Binhart had caught up a hat and a coat, and
was running away, running out through the door while his captor stared
after him.

It was only then Blake realized that his huddled position was not a
thing of his own volition. Some impact had thrown him against the wall
like a toppled nine-pin. The truth came to him, in a sudden flash;
Binhart had shot at him. There had been a second revolver hidden away
in the hand bag, and Binhart had attempted to make use of it.

A great rage against Binhart swept through him. A still greater rage
at the thought that his enemy was running away brought Blake lurching
and scrambling to his feet. He was a little startled to find that it
hurt him to run. But it hurt him more to think of losing Binhart.

He dove for the door, hurling his great bulk through it, tossing aside
the startled Portuguese servant who stood at the outer entrance. He
ran frenziedly out into the night, knowing by the staring faces of the
street-corner group that Binhart had made the first turning and was
running towards the water-front. He could see the fugitive, as he came
to the corner; and like an unpenned bull he swung about and made after
him. His one thought was to capture his man. His one obsession was to
haul down Binhart.

Then, as he ran, a small trouble insinuated itself into his mind. He
could not understand the swishing of his right boot, at every hurrying
stride. But he did not stop, for he could already smell the odorous
coolness of the waterfront and he knew he must close in on his man
before that forest of floating sampans and native house-boats swallowed
him up.

A lightheadedness crept over him as he came panting down to the water's
edge. The faces of the coolies about him, as he bargained for a
sampan, seemed far away and misty. The voices, as the flat-bottomed
little skiff was pushed off in pursuit of the boat which was hurrying
Binhart out into the night, seemed remote and thin, as though coming
from across foggy water. He was bewil