Sparling and I shouted our warnings frantically, at the same time dashing to intercept the assaulter.
Like a flash, Comstock whirled about, and raising an arm, deflected a blow from head to shoulder. Then, with lightninglike rapidity, he wrenched the thick cane from his assailant and tossed it over the hedge.
We now saw his attacker was James Ralston, owner of The Lodge, a fine house set like a castle at the top of a high cliff overhanging the town.
"Damn you, Comstock!" Ralston yelled furiously. "You will interfere with my affairs, will you? Then take that!"
Beside himself with rage, he dashed his fist full into Comstock's face. Comstock staggered; then, quickly recovering, went into action.
The fighters moved so swiftly that our eyes could scarcely follow them. But when after some minutes they stopped, panting for breath, we saw with elation that our friend had by far the best of it. He was almost unmarked, while Ralston's nose was spurting blood, his lips were puffed and bleeding, and his left eye badly blackened.
"Have you—had enough?" Comstock asked jerkily.
Ralston's face contorted with passion. "Damn you, no!"
Again he rushed at Comstock, and again they engaged.
The end came suddenly. Blocking cleverly a hook to the face, Comstock shot forward his left with tremendous force, catching Ralston squarely on the jaw. Collapsing like a broken balloon, Ralston sank huddled at our friend's feet.
Sparling and I had meanwhile stood fascinated, watching the combatants. We had expected something like this ever since Comstock's marriage to Edith Bentley five days before. Ralston had loved her passionately, and had vowed to settle accounts with his successful rival. But we had hoped it might be only an idle threat. Yet now, this!
Going forward, we congratulated the victor.
"Believe me, I was lucky!" Cornstock returned. "I had no idea the fellow was after me till you yelled. If it hadn't been for you, things would have gone mighty hard with me."
Then he turned again to the injured Ralston.
"We can't leave him like this," he remarked quickly. "You will have to help me take him home."
The beaten man had meanwhile slowly been regaining consciousness. Now uttering a curse, he crawled to his feet. He mumbled an indistinct threat, shook his fist weakly, and turning away, staggered up the road toward The Lodge.
Except for a lame arm where the heavy cane had struck him, and a few minor bruises, Comstock was unhurt. His assailant, however, had severely suffered. A week after the fight, a servant from The Lodge reported in Morrison's barber shop that his master was just getting around again.
Ten days afterward, Ralston packed his trunks; discharged all servants except his caretaker, old Simon Dawson; and departed bag and baggage, his destination secret.
Two years later, Jerry Mason, an acquaintance of mine who had just returned from India, told me he had met Ralston in Madras, at the entrance to a Buddhist temple, in the company of jugglers and magicians. Mason had held little conversation with Ralston, but believed the fellow had been studying magic.
Redvale heard no more of Ralston for six years.
Then, four months ago, when I was in the office getting my mail, the door flew open and young Charley Kilburn, a book agent who had been
