She did not actually see the revolver still in their enemy's hand. She was no more conscious of it than she was of the figures that crowded close at Wilsnach's heels. All she saw was the malignity of Keudell's heavy and colorless face. In its slightly vacuous and foolish-looking eyes she beheld only venom. It was the venom of ultimate and unreasoning hate. And she knew only too well what it meant.
At the same moment that she wondered why Keudell did not raise his weapon higher, she flung her body against the barrel-end that had wavered and wheeled until it centered on Wilsnach.
The shot did not seem loud to her. Her one fear was that it would be repeated and that with the second shot she might not be able to act as a shield for the man behind her. But there was no chance for a second shot, for a night-stick of seasoned ash, stained to look like cherry wood, reached fantastically over the head of Wilsnach and smote Keudell's fingers clustered on the metal revolver-stock.
It was wielded by a policeman, Sadie vaguely realized, a policeman even bigger than Keudell himself, a policeman who seemed unnaturally long of
