reached the floor below that the man following her made his spring. It was a sudden spring, but it was almost noiseless. And equally silent seemed the brief struggle that took place there in the darkness.
I could hear a faint gasp, more of pain than of fear, a sound of quickened breathing, and an even fainter sound of contending bodies. Then came a quiet thud, a thud that was more a vibration than a sound, and the louder note of hurrying steps passing from muffling rug to the polished hardwood floor.
Then still again, and with equal abruptness, the unexpected happened. Those hurrying steps were not half-way across the wide hall before the entire place flowered into sudden light.
At the same moment I beheld Wendy Washburn with the forefinger of his left hand pressed against a button-switch in the wall. In his right hand, I noticed, he held a heavy walking-stick. He held it obliquely across his shoulder, as a marching soldier carries a rifle. I surmised, from his attitude, that it was poised there, in position for striking. But I was no longer watching Wendy Washburn and his walking-stick. My eye had traveled on to the man in the checked tweed suit with the black club-bag. I could see him distinctly, in the clear light below me,
