seemed to me, as one pole is from the other. And it wasn't the brawnier man that I wanted to win.
But I noticed, with a gulp, that this same brawnier man was doing what most brawny men do, under the circumstances. He was getting the better of it; he was, in fact, skillfully and deliberately sparring for his coup de grace. I saw that Wendy Washburn was going to get his, as my old friend Myrtle would have said. I saw that he was going down to defeat, ignominious and inevitable defeat, by way of the knock-out route. And being a woman, I promptly and actively interfered in what seemed to me an altogether unfair struggle. I interfered by catching up the walking-stick that lay at the foot of the stairs, poising it above my head as I ran forward and bringing it down on Pinky McClone's thick skull just above his big pink ear.
He went down like a bag of feathers.
I stood staring at him. I stood, wide-eyed, looking down at his suddenly humbled strength, wondering what they'd do with this second body in that house of horrors.
Then Wendy Washburn, who'd been wiping the blood off his face, where his lip was cut, got back enough breath to cry out a quiet "Thank God."
"What for?" I asked him sharply, almost accus-
