THE BRASS BOWL
about the man's gullet; he shook him mercilessly. Anisty staggered, gasping, reeled, struck Maitland once or twice upon the chest,—feeble, weightless elbow-jabs that went for nothing, then concentrated his energies in a vain attempt to wrench the hands from his throat. Reeling, tearing at Maitland's wrists, face empurpling, eyes staring in agony, he stumbled. Mercilessly Maitland forced him to his knees and bullied him across the floor toward the nearest lounge—with premeditated design; finally succeeding in throwing him flat; and knelt upon his chest, retaining his grip but refraining from throttling him.
As it was, all strength and thought of resistance had been choked out of Anisty. He lay at length, gasping painfully.
Maitland glanced over his shoulders and saw the girl moving forward, apparently making for the switch.
"No!" he cried, peremptory. "Don't turn off the light—please!"
"But" she doubted.
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