iously, but the fatal knee pressure came upon his spine so shrewdly as to deprive him of the strength to raise his hands.
"My finish!" were the words that flashed through his mind, as sounds like the waves of a great ocean beat upon his ears and darkness began to descend.
Then, miraculously, the pressure ceased; the sound of great waters subsided; and choking, coughing, he fought his way back to life, groping like a blind man and striving to regain his feet.
"Mr. Brinn!" said a vaguely familiar voice.
"Mr. Brinn!"
The realities reasserted themselves. Before him, pale, wide-eyed, and breathing heavily, stood Paul Harley; and prone upon the floor of the pantry lay Rama Dass, still clutching one end of the silken rope in his hand!
"Mr. Harley!" gasped Brinn. "My God, sir!" He clutched at his bruised throat. "I have to thank you for my life."
He paused, looking down at the prone figure as Harley, dropping upon his knees, turned the man over.
"I struck him behind the ear," he muttered, "and gave him every ounce. Good heavens!"
He had slipped his hand inside Rama Dass's vest, and now he looked up, his face very grim.
"Good enough!" said Brinn, coolly. "He asked for it; he's got it. Take this." He thrust the Colt
