as he leaped for the street door, I knew, even before I saw his face, that it was Pinky McClone.
He did not go to the door. He knew, apparently, that it was too late. He seemed to realize that he had a fight to face, before he could achieve his freedom, for he dropped the club-bag and swung about as Wendy Washburn edged in between him and his iron-grilled avenue of escape.
He swung about without hesitation and quite without fear. At the first sight of my Hero-Man, in fact, a hunger for combat seemed to seize him. It was as though Pinky, in beholding that opponent of his, beheld an old and implacable enemy. And he went at that enemy as though there were a good many ancient scores to be wiped out.
It wasn't a long fight, but it was a bitter one, and at the very beginning of it the walking-stick went clattering across the polished floor, so that it soon became a contest of strength against strength.
I was so interested in that fight that I kept creeping farther and farther down the stairway, a step at a time, with my eyes staring and my heart in my mouth. And there was no division of sympathy on my part. I knew exactly how I wanted that fight to go. They may have both been criminals, those two, but they were as far apart in their make-up, it
