Whether the man heeded or not he gave no sign. Wilfrid's grip was as tenacious as that of a bulldog, all his fighting instincts aroused. He felt the exhilarating sense of superior power. For the moment the man was as clay in his hands.
But only for a moment. Then in some strange way the little man managed to jerk himself free and two arms of wire and whipcord were around Wilfrid's throat till he was fain to bend and give under the pressure lest his neck should break. In all his adventures he had never encountered such a force as this. Try as he would he could not shake those arms off. He felt himself gradually being borne backwards until his head touched the ground and one of those relentless grips was relaxed for an infinitesimal space of time. The struggle was none the less tenacious and deadly because it was being fought out almost entirely in the dark, and Wilfrid temporarily lost his self-possession. Then he knew that if he could not fling the man off him his end was near. With a desperate effort he struggled to his knees and grasping his antagonist by the waist literally threw himself down the stairs.
Over and over they rolled, first one above and then the other, but making little or no noise as they slid down the velvet pile of carpet. No sound came from either and the ferocious struggle went on till they landed at length in the hall and Wilfrid was conscious of the cold marble under his head.
The time for the final struggle had arrived. Driving his knee upwards Wilfrid caught his antagonist fairly in the chest with a force that made him groan again, and as he felt the tense, rigid limbs relax, he knew that now or never was the time to save his life. A mist swam before his eyes; he turned faint and unconscious for a second or two; then when he looked about him again he saw that his assailant was gone and that some one was bending over him with tender solicitude.
"Beatrice," he murmured. "What is the meaning of this?"
"Hush," the girl whispered, "not a word. Thank goodness I have managed to get here in time to save your life."
Beatrice Galloway's feelings were strangely mixed as she drove along beside her uncle towards Gower Street. It seemed as if lately the whole world had gone astray, as if all happiness had ceased to be. For many months past she had felt the loss of Wilfrid Mercer; indeed, she had missed him even more than she cared to acknowledge to herself. And yet, no sooner had he crossed her path again than all this trouble had come back with him.