Slowly strength and control came back to his hands. He clenched them with a grim smile; they were pretty good hands after all—quite equal to the work that lay ahead! And suddenly, as he cautiously tried to gain his feet without noise, he heard a chair scraped back in the adjoining room. “Confound that grapefruit!” It was Henderson who spoke, with irritation. “I’m going across the hall to the toilet and wash up. Call me if Charley rings up.” “Sure,” responded Cheadle. The door slammed after Henderson. The next instant Bowen heard the footsteps of Cheadle crossing the floor—toward him. Catlike, the man from Tonopah came to his feet, looked swiftly around for a weapon. He could not trust his fists—yet! There was too much at stake. He must call Gus Saunders before two o’clock! As the dumpy figure of Cheadle parted the curtains, Bowen caught up a small footstool—the first object to hand—and hurled it. The hassock took Cheadle in the side of the head and knocked him sprawling. Before he could recover, Bowen was upon him; and, without any mercy, struck two blows that knocked out the fat little mining man. Moving rapidly, Bowen caught up the cords that had bound him, tied Cheadle hand and foot, and rolled the inert body under the bed. Barely had he finished and come erect, when Henderson returned to the adjoining room. “Nothing doing yet, eh?” he sang out. The telephone rang, and saved Bowen from making any response. Henderson took the message and repeated his former commands. “Well, didn’t I tell you the stock was kiting up? Now you wait for my order to sell, and keep your ear close to the phone! I want no monkey business at the last moment.” Henderson banged up the receiver. “She’s up to ninety, Cheadle!” he called exultantly. “What ’d I tell you, eh? It’s just ten minutes of two now. In five minutes I’ll give Charley orders to sell—” “I’ll bet you two to one you don’t,” said Bowen, stepping into the room. He had thought to take Henderson by surprise; to down the thunderstruck man without a struggle. But he had far underestimated Dickover’s former agent. Henderson had spread upon a small table which bore the telephone, the dishes borne in by Cheadle. Without a second’s hesitation, Henderson picked up a heavy restaurant coffee-cup and hurled it fair and square at the face of his opponent. Caught athwart the forehead by the missile, Bowen almost crumpled up. Henderson was upon him like a wildcat, beating at him with another cup. Bowen could do no more than clinch. Locked in each other’s arms, the two men reeled back and forth, smashed over chairs, went crashing into the wall with terrific impact. The shock separated them. Henderson’s arm swept up; the heavy crockery cracked down upon Bowen’s head, struck full against the blood-black bruise Cheadle had given him, and shivered to pieces.