There was a short, sharp struggle over the levers, and the car jerked to a stop and stood still with the engine whirring madly. Yelling an oath, the unknown stooped and, rising again with a heavy wrench in his hand, swung it at the detective’s head. Rankin parried the blow, catching his arm, but in doing so lost his balance and tumbled from the car to the ground, dragging the other with him. At that instant Harry came running up.
“It’s all right, Gil — for God’s sake, Mr. Rankin, let him go!”
But Rankin’s blood was up now, and even if he had heard he would not have heeded. The murderous look in the other’s eyes as he struck with the wrench had roused him to fury; and he loved a fight. He got one.
He had landed on his knees on the pavement, with Gil, pulled after, tumbling on his shoulders. The impact knocked Rankin prostrate, with the other on top, raining wild blows on his face and neck. With a mighty heave of his body the detective half unseated him, twisted about and caught his arms. Holding with a grip of steel, he worked to his knees, then one foot to the ground, then both. He was upright. With a desperate effort the unknown got an arm loose and swung, but Rankin sprang forward to clinch before the blow could land. Breathing heavily, grappling fiercely together, they swayed back and forth over the pavement; and with the superhuman strength of fear in him, Gil was holding his own. Harry Adams stood on the sidewalk, starting forward and then halting again, as if unable to decide which man to help; and all the time calling frantically to Gil that it was “all right,” and to Rankin to let him go.
They lurched back and forth across the sidewalk, struggling silently; then suddenly Rankin’s foot caught on the edge of the curb and he stumbled, loosening his hold. On the instant Gil jerked away, then hurled himself forward and bore the other to the ground, knocking the breath out of him; and then jumped to his feet and sprang for the car with a triumphant oath. Swiftly Rankin was back on his feet and after him, dragging him from his seat, though his head was dizzy and stunned from the impact of the pavement. Gil clung to the edge of the car; Rankin tugged at him, and when the hold was suddenly released they tumbled backwards together. Gil was up first; his eye caught something on the ground; a quick swoop, and he straightened and turned with the heavy iron wrench in his hand. “Now, damn you!” he screamed, and rushed forward.
Rankin dodged swiftly, and got a glancing blow on the shoulder. Again the wrench was raised, but the detective leaped forward and caught the arm before it could come down. There was a sharp pain in his shoulder, but he grappled and held on, jerking at the wrench with one hand, and finally got it loose and sent it spinning through the air. Then he drew back and swung his clenched fist at the others’ jaw, unexpectedly and successfully. He felt his knuckles crunch on the flesh and bone, and the unknown went down like a log. Rankin sprang astride of him and sat on him; and then Harry Adams’s agitated voice came:
“Let him go, Mr. Rankin — please let him go. He’s done nothing — that is, not what you think. You must let him go, sir.”
The detective merely grunted, pinning down his captive’s arms.
“You must, Mr. Rankin — he meant no harm to you—”
“Of course not,” panted the detective. “He just wanted to see how close he could come with that wrench without hitting me.”
“You were after him.”
“And I got him.”
“You must let him go.”
“Don’t be a damned idiot, Harry. Of course I won’t let him go.”
The unknown stirred a little. The detective tightened his hold, resting for breath.
“But I say you must.” Young Adams moved so that he stood directly over the two men on the pavement, and spoke rapidly. “Listen, Mr. Rankin. It’s a question of my honor. Gil came down here to see me. It would be the same as if I’d betrayed him, when I’d promised to help him. You must let him go. It’s a matter of honor.”
“Your honor is your own lookout, my boy. As for me, I’m going to have a good long talk with your pleasant-mannered friend and find out why he’s so free with his wrenches.”
“Mr. Rankin, let him go.”
Silence. The detective shifted his hold a little and, leaning over, saw the shifty eyes open, and simultaneously felt a reawakening of the muscles of the man beneath him; and then he felt something else: two strong hands gripping him from above.
“I’m sorry, sir—”
“Keep off, Harry!”
The detective sat harder. Gil’s body twisted feebly about. Young Adams seemed to hesitate an instant, then he stooped swiftly and encircled Rankin with his arms. The detective struggled, but in vain; he was still all but exhausted, and the strength of the young athlete was too much for him. Inexorably he was dragged from his captive and across the sidewalk; he tried to twist about, but the arms held him in a grip of steel. The unknown, left free, stirred and turned, lifting himself to his knees; there he stopped for a moment, swaying as if dazed, then hastily scrambled to his feet. Young Adams was calling to him quietly:
“Get in the car, Gil, and beat it. Quick! Come on, pull yourself together! Beat it, I say! You might have known — I’ll phone you in the morning. Lay low till you hear from me.”
The unknown lost no time, nor wasted breath in speech. For a second he stood uncertainly in the attitude of a man who asks “Where am I?” then turned without a word and staggered to the roadster and pulled himself in. The engine was still running. A jerk of a lever, and the car leaped forward into the night.
Harry waited till the red light had completely disappeared in the darkness, then released his hold on the detective and stepped aside.
“I’m sorry, sir—”
Rankin made no reply. He was feeling gingerly about his shoulder for broken bones, and moving his arm cautiously up and down. It seemed to work all right. Now that the passion of battle was leaving him, he felt a little silly as he looked at the young man standing there quietly before him in the peaceful moonlight.
“Who the deuce is Gil?” he asked abruptly.
Then as Harry hesitated with his reply the detective looked at his watch, shook himself together and brushed the dust from his clothing.
“Nearly one o’clock,” he observed. “No use standing here. Let’s get back to Greenlawn. You can tell me about it on the way.”
So it was as they trudged back along the moonlit country road, side by side, that Harry explained. Until they reached the border of the village he was silent, and when he began to speak his words came jerkily.
“I’ll have to tell you about it, I suppose,” he said slowly, “so you’ll understand my position. Not that there’s anything really wrong about it as far as I’m concerned, but I... well, I’m not very proud of it.”
They walked on a moment in silence, then he continued:
“Gil... Gil Warner — was a classmate of mine at college. He did me a mighty good turn one night — in fact he saved my life and more, too. But that hasn’t anything to do with the worst part of the business — that is, my worst part — the beginning.