hand still holding the revoler. But he could already feel that the action was a foolish one, for the waiting finger compressed on its trigger before that swinging standard of brass could even reach the zenith of its orbit.
Kestner was conscious of the quickly shifting barrel being directed at his own body. And he knew that the shot was to be fired, and fired at calamitously close quarters, that the small black mouth of the weapon was ordained to deliver its flame and lead.
Then the picture in some way became confused. Its shiftings were too rapid to decipher. But at what seemed the moment when the black barrel-end spoke he heard Maura Lambert's cry, flat with fear. He saw her hand dart out and clutch the glimmering steel barrel. She caught at it foolishly, insanely, as though a barrier so frail might hold back that tearing and rending bullet which an inch of solid oak could scarcely stop.
Her cry and the report of the revolver seemed almost simultaneous. Kestner saw her arm flung outward and downward, sharply. That movement could not have been more spasmodic had it been controlled by the quick jerk of a wire. But he saw that his own body had sustained no shock, and he had sense enough to remember there must be no time for a third shot.
Kestner was on his tiptoes as he brought the Roman lamp down on Watchel's upraised right arm, for all the strength of his being was behind that blow. It struck true. The fire-arm went clattering across the
